“Indeed, I do,” answered Eriboth stoically.
“Please, let us remove the barriers that stand between us now and speak again as equals,” said King Hinthial sensing Eriboth’s lack of emotional nostalgia.
“But the yokes we carry are no more able to be forgotten than can our very breaths,” said Eriboth, still bound in shackles.
“This is true, but surely there is more commonality between us than simply what lies in the past? Eriboth, there was a time when we stood together for the greatness of not only House Dordrosis and House Hinthial, but for all Elves and the Stars. Can it not be again?” said King Hinthial as he grasped Eriboth’s shoulder warmly.
Eriboth remained silent.
“Come now, Eriboth. There was a time when I considered you almost a son. Have you forgotten? Is your mind so affected and your treachery so deep that nothing can sway you, once again, to side with the Elves. Your rightful family?” asked the King.
Eriboth remained silent.
“Perhaps it is too late for that, but perhaps not. I am told that, in spite of the overwhelming evidence against you and Queen Glinovia, there is still a very large contingency pleading for your sentences to be merciful. Even the Lady Zamorinthia still holds a place for your favor, I am told. Really, Eriboth, you still have, on the tips of your hands, the power to end this charade and assume your rightful position within the Elves again. I am The King and I can restore to you everything this sickness of the mind has taken from you. Can you imagine it? Can you see it?” said King Hinthial as he directed Eriboth to look toward the City of Light. “Can you not feel its longing to have you again within its good graces; to be praised as you were once before for your unequalled skill with pen and tongue? Not to mention the prowess of your sword. It is quite unstoppable and would be heralded as the greatest there has even been! You would assume your appropriate position as the greatest legend in all of Elven history. Does it not sound appealing to finally come home?”
Eriboth remained silent.
“Ah, no doubt you are looking for the conditions of your reinstatement. I require only one thing, Eriboth. And it is honestly a small and simple thing. All I require from you is to openly admit all of your crimes to the Council of Judges,” he said and paused ever so briefly before he continued, “and to denounce your new-found King. You will then be asked to pledge fealty to myself and The Stars once again.”
Eriboth remained silent.
“Well, do you not think that is a small request to save your life, and that of your former Queen?” he asked, turning away from Eriboth to appreciate the last few moments of Meckthenial’s sunset driven beauty.
Eriboth looked again to Meckthenial, the City of Light, the City of Hope, the only city he once called home. And though his memories were firmly intact, there was no familiarity associated with them. At least, none that evoked any emotional connection to his youth within the walls. Yes, he still possessed all of the knowledge of the where’s and how’s of the city. His recollection of the physical structures and the personal customs inside were the same as they had been before the charges against him had been levied. But he was lacking the normal, mortal nostalgic feelings associated with returning home after a long and hard journey. As such, there was no longing for him to do so. But that is not to say there was no longing whatsoever within him. Quite the contrary, in fact. Since the moment of his resurrection and veritable rebirth, his longing for all things considered mortal had been replaced with a singular conviction to stand with his new King. It was this that softly dominated his actions and therefore his choices, regardless of consequence. So, it was upon this love driven dedication that he forged all of his choices. And because of that, there was no choice at all.
“Lord, Hinthial,” spoke Eriboth softly, “it is with all gratitude that I thank you for your overwhelmingly generous act of mercy and understanding. To say there would be nothing I would rather do than to walk the streets of my home again, free and clear of any charges, would not do justice to the emotions I am currently feeling,” he said and paused as a small and contemptuous grin was formed on King Hinthial’s lips. “Because,” he said more strongly, “the emotions I am feeling are not for Meckthenial, nor the memories I hold for the past. To acknowledge them before the present would be to allow the past to hold a position of power over all that I am now charged to do; therefore, limiting who I have yet to become,” he said.
“You are foolish,” stated Lord Hinthial sternly, obviously not used to having his council disregarded.
"Furthermore,” continued Eriboth, “my allegiance aligns only with He Who Is Greater, and not with the doctrines or concerns of mortality. For in His immortality, have I joined with Him to the greater portion of life. A life extending beyond walls, and stars, and trees, and kings, and queens, and swords, and words into the very fabric of a love great enough to have created everything and forgotten nothing. For this reason, and this reason alone, do I humbly thank you for and subsequently refuse your request,” said Eriboth as he squared his shoulders and feet to directly face King Hinthial.
A moment of silence passed, and then The King struck Eriboth across his face with the back of his hand. “Very well, Traitor, your fate has been sealed.”
Eriboth was escorted to the King’s tent and placed in shackles fastened to a post that had been placed in the center of the encampment. His evening rations had been refused, or forgotten, but Eriboth suspected the former as a designed plan from King Hinthial. Most of his clothes had been removed and taken away. Likewise, he was cleaned, or rather, doused with bucket after bucket of alternating hot and cold water. His hair was slicked back and tied into a short ponytail. With his hands tied behind him, and then fastened to the post, it was impossible for him to recline.
But as physically uncomfortable as he had been made, having to awkwardly sit with his back against the hard post, no doubt a calculated move, he was still able to close his eyes. He was tired. More tired than he remembered being before. The weight of the burden placed upon his heart by the Love of the Man he called King was a more formidable force than he had ever encountered before. He was Eriboth, Legendary for his sword, pen, and skill in all things he chose to do. There was no foe he could not stand against, nor any object he could not move once his will was set upon it. But this was different. Altogether different.
He contemplated the profoundness of His love for one that had been so lost he was not even able to see he was lost. He had caused so much pain, so much destruction left in the wake of his effort to assert himself as valuable and worthy in the eyes of man because he did not, could not, and would not feel that way from the only family he had known. Yet, regardless of his transgressions, and even though forgiveness would never find him in the eyes of mortality, it would land squarely on the shores of his long and deeply repressed hope by the force of a complete and totally immortal love; a love removed from any and all conditions. This love was so great, one had no choice but to respond, even if just a little? And that response is change. A change that began with a gentle dissolving away of all things lacking a loving motivation and ending with his desires reflecting only those expressed through that unconditional love. But the burden he chose to carry, if choice really was present, was heavy.
There was no doubt that if he chose, he could approach King Hinthial, or rather call for the guard because he was still limited to a single spot. Even now, after Eriboth had initially refused the King’s bargain, he was sure the King would accept his agreement at this late hour. In fact, King Hinthial would probably accept it right up until the moment of his execution, should it come to it. But Love does not compromise. If it did, would Eriboth even be here? Would he have been extended the forgiveness when weighed upon the scales of his life with his deeds split between those deemed good, and those deemed ill? After all, what does compromise breed if not the condition of qualified based judgement? He, Eriboth, on only the merits of his life, would most assuredly be found worthy of mortal guilt and its judgements therein. But,
when substituted by the uncompromising Love and forgiveness of Jesus’s life, there was no judgement to be made because it had already been for all time. And that judgement was redemption. To say there was still judgement means there would necessarily be a choice. And to say there was a choice would be to say the nature of Jesus and His love was not an absolute. But because the very nature of unconditional, divine love is an absolute, untarnishable by the conditions of mortality, then the reflection of it is no choice at all, and therefore, absent of judgement.
Yet, would this forgiveness and conditionless love be extended to his son, the evil that is seeking to infiltrate the whole of Avendia? How could it be that he was chosen to face this growing evil knowing the emotional conflict it would cause? Eriboth had stood on the threshold of vanquishing this evil from the world and quite possibly saving all of the peoples of the land. It would have only been moments before his sword, a sword he had since lost, would have pierced whatever heart was present within the instrument of hatred, rendering him dead. But in the moment of his preparing breath, he saw it. Faint, small, but so very strong, it was hidden deeply inside his foe. Remembering back, he should have seen it sooner. His movements, the way he flowed in battle and his muscular structure were too familiar to suggest a coincidental resemblance. But what he was unable to detect through physical similarities he was compelled to see as a result of the dark spell that was cast upon him.
When crossing swords, he knew he would emerge the victor. Although ferociously formidable, the young warlord of evil was just that, young and driven by emotions. They made him erratic and ultimately predictable. Eriboth made use of this predictability and consciously manipulated the younger warrior into a pattern, one he was able to control. So, when he felt the spell, its dark and twisted genesis, land upon his consciousness, he decided to allow it to manifest knowing it would reveal nothing that could be used as an advantage to turn the tides of battle. However, when the tide fully came in, it showed what neither of them could have anticipated. And with it came a contrasting emotional cascade of elemental strength. One driven by hate, and the other driven by love. Hence, it was the instinctual lashing out of hate that dominated the instinctive desire to understand from love. As a result, when Eriboth hesitated, Jesolin advanced and won. Had it not been for the intervention of Lacorion, Eriboth would never have made it to the care of Nadalize.
But what did that yield except compromising his dearest friend and her husband? Had it not been for Eriboth’s peaceful surrender and insistence that their actions were the result of his physical coercion, when their ruse was revealed to the King, he was sure both Nadalize and Geromain would be set to suffer the same fate as h, and he simply could not, and would not have that. His love for them would not allow them to suffer for his actions. He hoped King Yahnaros would be true to his word and issue no blame to them, but he was not sure Nadalize would not try to share some in order to lessen the recompense facing Eriboth.
As his thoughts began to fade from distinct images into the diffuse emotions of a near slumbering state, he heard the distinct chirping of the Yellow Star. Naturally, this provoked images and flashes of bright yellow in his slowly fading wakeful state; images that faded from the brilliant yellow of the bird’s feathers into the wonderfully blonde locks of Soliana. There was much to consider where she was concerned, but foremost on his mind was whether or not she knew Jesolin was hers. Not to mention what conditions were present for him to have left the cares of his mother to embrace the cares of something completely evil. But those considerations were too heavy for his mind at the moment; for he was tired. So tired that regardless of his mental desire to explore more of his questions, he could not. So, with his eyes still closed, his meditation turned from conscious thoughts to subconscious dreams, dreams that were filled with the whole world’s images. Some a reflection of his past, some a reflection of his present, and yet more that he hoped would be a reflection of his future.
Although he was awakened from a very deep slumber by the icy feel of cold water exploding against his bare chest, he was able to gain his awareness very quickly. He was roughly handled by two guards, neither of them Hundolis. As he was pulled to his feet and his shackles were unclasped from the pole behind him, he saw an open carriage to his left. It was ornate and lined with golden colored metal. Set against the polished silver of the body of the carriage, the gold lining gave no illusions as to whose it was. It was clearly meant for King Hinthial.
To his right, about fifty feet behind the King’s carriage, he saw another open one. This one was made of wood and tied to two small donkeys obviously meant to pull it. He watched as three other elf guards placed the pole that he was previously strapped to, into a hole in the center of the platform on wheels. Once the pole was in place, he saw the elves take turns driving wooden steaks into the bottom of it, firmly locking its position. Unlike the King’s carriage, which was set to be pulled by two of the whitest and largest elven horses available in creation, this one obviously meant for him was void of side walls or seats. As he continued to watch the three elves, he saw them horizontally push a smaller post through the central one about two thirds of the way up, locking it in place with the same type of wooden steaks they used to secure the upright post. After they thoroughly tested the integrity of their cross shaped structure, one of the elves signaled the two guarding Eriboth. They escorted him, rather roughly, onto the wooden platform on wheels. The guards followed him as he ascended the steps. When all three of them were on the carriage, they first secured his feet to the platform and post. Then, they each grabbed him by the wrist and stretched his arms as far as they could fastening them to the horizontal post with thick and sturdy twine. Finally, they tied a rope around his neck and central post completing their task.
As the elves descended the steps and took their places, each on a side of the wooden carriage, Eriboth heard a voice from behind him, “It is not too late, my Dear Eriboth. Say that you agree to my simple term and you will be spared all of this humiliation. Furthermore, you will be granted a life next to my side. True, you will be heir to nothing, but you will live on as a Legend to, once again, captivate the imaginations and praises of those who so desperately wish to praise you.”
He knew it was King Hinthial. He expected as much. Hoping the reality of the following events would persuade Eriboth into agreement, he offered him a second chance. But the steel conviction within Eriboth was not to be dissuaded from the manifestation of his singular path, “Such as these bindings hold me to this carriage and render my physical freedom impossible, so too would my agreement to your terms result in a captivity greater than any fleeting freedom resulting therein. I stand by my initial conviction. For within it, my freedom has been guaranteed.”
“So be it,” said King Hinthial as he walked away.
It was midafternoon when the progression of elves reached the gates of the City of Light. Welcoming them were not the familiar, crystal clear and legendary horns signifying the King had returned. Instead, they were greeted by a horde of citizens all gathered as close as they could to the main interior court yard just inside the outer gate. Under normal circumstances, when the King returned from an event of such magnitude, the crowd would be expected to behave as if they were welcoming home a triumphant regiment of militia that had just vanquished their strongest and longest standing foe, but that was not the case. Instead, their cheers and triumphant jubilations were replaced by the most horrible insults elves had ever uttered. And all of them were aimed directly at the man splayed across the makeshift cross.
As much as this procession was staged, it was also expected. Eriboth knew it had been orchestrated by King Hinthial to have the majority of the elves welcoming them, however, he was not entirely prepared for the outright barbaric nature of their display. Their demeanor reminded him more of the Ogres who were naturally given to more emotional aggression as directed by their deity, Ogressin. But the Elves worshiped no emotional deity. Rather, they worshiped the stars and their conduct. Fore
ver ingrained within their culture, their actions always reflected the stoic nature and constancy of the heavenly bodies. That their actions resembled such a deviation from their religious doctrines was a source of concern for Eriboth.
As they made their way toward the central castle, the intensity of the insults grew. Children were given rotten food to throw, and some were even given small stones. At one point, Eriboth was pelted strongly enough that some of the stones drew small blotches of blood from his arms, shoulders, chest and face. All of his wounds he could ignore. They were but small, physical indications that the evil progressing in the land had reached within even the City of Light. Perhaps it had even reached here first.
As his wooden platform rounded the last corner entering the central and main roadway leaving nothing between it and the castle, he felt the presence of a particularly small child of no more than eight or nine years. Much too small to understand any of the conditions surrounding today, Eriboth felt sad for the child. There she stood, absent of comprehension, but directed to throw a stone at him nonetheless. She did not know why. All she knew was that her parents told her to throw the stone as some sort of sport. So, she let it fly, albeit weekly. It missed. He sensed within her a sadness and shame stemming from her inability to do what her parents were telling her to do. He felt her anger grow. She threw two more stones, both of them missing. He felt the sting of her father’s hand on her bottom as it landed on his heart. He felt her eyes tear up in unison with a deep breath driven by her crying. He felt her anger rise again. She threw a fourth stone at him. Before she even threw it, he knew it would miss. It would fly past his right ear landing harmlessly against the post. Before she even let it go, he felt the sting of what would be another spank to her already bruising bottom. Instinctively, his eyes welled. So, when she threw it, he bent his neck at just the right angle allowing the stone to crash against his right ear. When the stone had connected with its intended target, he felt joy from the little girl. But it was not a pure form of joy. Rather, it was the result of relief. Not just relief from avoiding a physical spanking, she felt the relief from feeling shame and guilt. For that was a stronger motivation that any physical harm.
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