by C A Oliver
Yet here they were: castaways of the Austral Ocean. They were isolated on a small isle of the archipelago but, without doubt, now within range of their spiritual destiny.
A religious fervour had taken hold of them; as the afternoon passed, their chants expressed their zealous devotion. The crew sung of the perils of their life at sea, the longing for the shores of their homeland, and the great hope they felt at the prospect of discovering more islands of the coveted archipelago.
“In Essawylor we dwelt, from Essawylor we hail!
Then we left our home
Through the waves and foam
Now to Nyn Llorely we sail!”
On and on, their songs continued as they improvised verses in a merry competition to come up with the most creative and inspiring rhymes.
In the evening, the dyn Filweni gathered around Feïwal, away from the crew’s intense activities and speculative chatter. They sat down in a simple circle on the wooden floor of the aftcastle. In the commotion, the gathering of the ship’s council had not been noticed by the others. The four dyn were soon joined by Roquen, who sat in front of Feïwal, in respect for the Irawenti tradition.
Aewöl and Curwë followed him. The Dol Lewin lord was rarely seen without his two most trusted companions. He relied on Aewöl for his wise council, measured temper and wide knowledge. He loved the bard Curwë for his impertinence, fervour and humour. Roquen liked to compare their dual influence to the rays of the moon and the sun, for each carried a magic of its own.
All the council members had preferred to let the day pass before meeting to consider their decision with clarity.
Roquen was restless and agitated. The turbulence of recent events had affected him, changed him, more than anyone else aboard. The Dol Lewin lord was convinced that his companions must have by now perceived the weakness that he was suffering from. In his eyes, there could be nothing worse; his personal strength was the foundation of his authority over other, lesser Elves. All his life force was now devoted to concealing from others the doubts which tormented him. He was no longer sure of his destiny or purpose.
As if attempting to break the malicious stigma, Roquen spoke first, staring blankly ahead. He was expressionless, his whole demeanour betraying his lack of resolution.
“The proud standard of the war unicorn has disappeared into the depths of the Austral Ocean. It has been taken from me, as was everything else. That standard was a sacred relic, given to Lewin, my ancestor, by his wife Iriagaele of the House of Dol Amrol, to seal their union. It had survived every battlefield of the First Age. It saw our glorious defeats and also… our ignominious victories. It was taken from me… swallowed by the ocean. It is a sign, a sign that I cannot ignore. Its loss announces the end of my house…and it seals my own fall…
From now on, I ask you to know me as Roquendagor, simply Roquendagor, a knight without banner.”
The High Elf paused. He was deliberately and freely choosing to renounce his heritage. Abandoning his Dol inheritance relieved him from a burden that was proving too heavy to bear. Roquen continued in solemn voice.
“Dyn Filweni, we owe you our life and our freedom. We remain indebted to you, yet our paths will have to divide. Our presence by your side poses a great danger. It jeopardizes the noble quest you embarked upon and threatens to thwart the great ambition of your kind.”
With these few noble words, he removed any responsibility for the Irawenti towards his former household. Standing behind him, the bard Curwë, who had not been consulted, realised the impact of Roquen’s declaration. He thought ahead anxiously to what the immediate future might hold for them, lost in that hostile wilderness without the assistance of the Irawenti. At his side, Aewöl remained still, his face blank. But his gaze hardened. He, too, had not been consulted.
The Irawenti remained silent, each processing the consequences. Nelwiri, the youngest of the dyn Filweni, sat slightly apart, twirling a small piece of wood between his nimble fingers. He visibly did not expect to be involved in the debate. He therefore could not mask his surprise when Feïwal asked his opinion.
“Siw!” he exclaimed in surprise. “I have no such opinion. Where the ship goes, I will go ...” He smiled smugly at the ambiguity of his response.
All eyes turned to Luwir who, while the oldest and most respected noble of the clan, was nevertheless second to Feïwal. He hesitated, preparing to mark each of his words with authority.
“The Elves of the House of Dol Lewin have shared the pains and sorrows of our journey. I do not believe that, after all that we have been through, their fate can be separated from our own. Abandoning them would be like abandoning a part of ourselves.
I will stay by their side, but I suggest that others aboard the ship try to sail to Nyn Llorely and to reach the City of Urmilla where some of our distant relatives dwell. They will plead on our behalf, on all of our behalves.”
Aewöl intervened, seizing the opportunity to influence the debate. To the surprise of all, he argued the opposite to what could have been expected of him.
“Those are generous words that do you much honour, Luwir. They are worthy of your title, Commander of the clan of Filweni. But, alas, the oath taken by King Lormelin did not disappear with his death. His son inherited it along with the crown of the archipelago. This oath is a fearful thing. Only the death of young King Norelin and the extinction of his line could allow the House of Dol Lewin to hope for some clemency. There can be no bright future before us or before those who choose to join us. You must abandon us. Any other choice would mean taking a perilous path, strewn with many pitfalls.”
Heads bowed, and eyes turned away, as each Elf processed these words. Turning towards Roquen to recommend a way out, Aewöl added in a lighter tone.
“I recommend that we and the Unicorn guards head for Mentollà and settle among the wild Elves. There are many ways we could rally them to our cause. They are warriors, numbering in their hundreds, waiting for someone to lead them. Furthermore, that ruined tower is located strategically, beyond the clutches of the king. It is easy to defend and set apart from both the human barbarians and the hostile Llewenti clans: a perfect haven for the outcasts we shall become. Its shelter promises us many possibilities for the future. Let us hope our Irawenti friends find their way on the archipelago, and that one day they can return aboard their vessel.”
It seemed as if Roquendagor did not even contemplate replying; his mind was absorbed elsewhere. Feïwal turned to his sister.
“Arwela, I saw how, earlier this night, your gaze was lost in the constellations. What have you read in the stars? Could you unravel the designs of Cil, Cim and Cir?”
Arwela was highly respected among the clan of Filweni; no major decision was made without first obtaining her advice. She was calm, beautiful and serene as she began to speak. Following her instinct, the Seer of the clan of Filweni was eager to help, but she did not want to say too much.
“I did attempt to understand the stars’ mysterious influence. Celestial bodies appear strange on this side of the ocean. Their heavenly shapes seem closer, more numerous, more vivid than in our hemisphere, and the fading moonlight only augments this effect. All of Cil’s magnificence is on display, but the three stars are far apart. My art is now reaching its limit.
Siw! No one can predict how their influence will affect our fate.
The road to the east, to the island of Nyn Llorely, is wiser and safer; I have seen how Cim illuminates its shoreline.
Hope but also danger lies to the west, where the course is uncertain, difficult and unknown. Towards sunset, I see how Cil and Cir fight to control our destiny; none can say which of the two will prevail. Will promise triumph over doom? That, I cannot tell.”
There was a long silence. Feïwal, who until now had kept his feelings secret, felt his heart freeze in the solemnity of the moment. He knew that, beyond their own survival, the fate of many others depended on his decision. Feïwal had always buried his inner thoughts and never let anyone influence his em
otions or decisions. Not even his own kin could truly sway him. Turning his gaze to his sister, he spoke with surety.
“The elder matriarch of clan Llyvary traced the eastern course for us: that same matriarch who so distrusts us, and who pretends to stay the rising winds of Eïwal Ffeyn. The Lady of Llafal fears us, blinded as she is by the ancient beliefs she has inherited from a fallen world. She saw that our coming announced great changes to her world. But she is afraid of what those changes might be, even as the spirits of the forest sing the news of our coming, even as they gather in the ruined tower to celebrate the breeze that blew us from the ocean! My friends, we cannot trust her.
Cil, Cim, Cir! I will therefore lead you to the west and take the forbidden path. We will challenge the matriarch’s command, and the threats that any royal oath poses to us.
We will look to Mentollà.
Siw! I am the Guide of the clan of Filweni. I roam free and no authority in this world will ever decide my fate.”
All nodded in agreement.
“My friend Roquendagor! Abriwa! Let us seal today our alliance! We represent new hope for the Elves of the archipelago. Together we shall do great deeds! Come here and let us celebrate!” Feïwal rose to embrace the tall knight, in accordance with the warm-hearted ways of the Irawenti.
The other members of his family did not share his enthusiasm. The strengthening of their ties to the High Elves worried them. Indeed, none of them rose to celebrate this renewed friendship. However, Curwë, who appeared greatly relieved by this decision, joined them and declared.
“This day shall be marked with a stone, Feïwal dyn. Your inspiring leadership has guided us so far and our renewed vows of friendship shall give rise to glorious feats to come, I foresee it now. It is a wonderful thing, when Elves of different origins unite. It deserves a song.”
Aewöl rose in celebration, using the opportunity created by the Curwë’s declaration.
“Indeed, something inspiring has been born today. We unite today to become the Sari[46], those who will open the way.”
And after this ambitious augury, he embraced his friends, one after the other. Aewöl’s face was brightened by the pleasure of friendship.
Filled with joy at these warm effusions, Feïwal confirmed their newfound resolution.
“We will first sail east, but when night falls we will about-turn and make haste towards the west. Let us pray that Eïwal Ffeyn’s winds carry the Alwïryan safely to port.”
“In this case,” Roquendagor stated, looking weary, “all is well. And I can finally rest.”
He stood up and, without a word more, was on his way. The tension that had been building within him over the past few months was gradually vanishing, creating a troubling emptiness. His senses were disturbed, his gait unsettled. Making slow, unsteady progress, he managed to reach the ship’s hold without assistance. For more than three months, he had not really rested. Elvin sleep was a deep reverie and Roquendagor had not experienced it for a long time. Aewöl had warned him this could lead to insanity. His councillor had prepared specific potions to assist him through his period of mourning. But pride and stubbornness had prevailed and Roquendagor had refused to absorb the soothing beverages; the vials had been set aside.
As the Dol Lewin heir abandoned the name of his House, rejecting his bloodline and the responsibilities and duties that came with it, he was seized by a profound weakness. He needed the potions. Roquendagor smiled when he finally retrieved them from their hiding place in his cabin. He opened them eagerly, drank them and let the unnatural fluid act through him. He laid down in his hammock and fell into a deep slumber.
*
What Aewöl had used to prepare his potions, Roquendagor did not know. But their effect had been almost immediate; he was plunged into a deep, remedial sleep, which lasted several days.
But, after a while, his dark dreams returned, though now they were of a different nature. He would feel his body floating helplessly in the waves. His clothes would be soaked. Sometimes he would have difficulty breathing, as the saltwater fought its way up through his nose. The sensation of drowning would start to fill him with dread, and he was incapable of expelling the horrible feeling from his mind. Horrible noises, like waves crashing against rocks, disrupted his senses. He would hear desperate cries around him from Elves doomed to the same fate. He would then feel other creatures touching him, grabbing him…
“So, this is it, death is trying to seize me,” he realized, becoming angry. “Not yet!” he resolved with wrath.
Roquendagor began to awake. The halls of the dead bore a striking resemblance to the Alwïryan’s hold. Curwë and Gelros were nearby, trying with difficulty to raise him. The keel was severely damaged and split. The hull had taken on huge quantities of water. The ship was disintegrating, breaking at the seams. At the very moment Roquendagor had realised his desperate situation, a deafening crash rung out as the Alwïryan hit the rocks. A beam broke away, striking him hard on the head. He was once again unconscious.
*
It was still night when Roquendagor awoke, his body wedged into the sand of a beach. He was covered in blankets from the neck down. Tilting his head up, he saw multiple fires illuminating the scene before him. He was at the mouth of a small river, from its bed clusters of rock protruded from the water, creating rapids and pools along its course.
The vessel lay disembowelled. The remains of the Alwïryan were strewn across the beach, It had crashed against the rocks before running aground on the sand. Some of his companions were busy extracting all that could be saved from the ship’s remains. Aewöl and Curwë were coordinating the Unicorn guards’ efforts to recover the plants from Essawylor that had been stored in the ship’s holds.
Most of the crew had gathered around Feïwal to listen to his prayers in a display of great devotion. The guide of the clan of Filweni was standing on a large rock, haranguing the survivors and exhorting them to pray to the angry god, Eïwal Ffeyn.
Arwela approached Roquendagor.
“Cil, Cim, Cir! It is good to see that you are well,” she said delicately.
She was relieved that her efforts to cure him had been successful. As a seer of her clan, Arwela was blessed with rare healing skills. She had inherited ancient powers which enabled her to perform vital acts of healing. With her great abilities, Arwela had managed to save Roquendagor from his injuries and her natural draughts had finally neutralized the effects of Aewöl’s vials.
“Eïwal Ffeyn delivered us from the ocean’s wrath,” Arwela continued, looking up with admiration at her younger brother, who was still in the midst of that moving clan ceremony, hearing now the tributes of his followers.
“What has happened?” Roquendagor muttered, fighting to overcome a deep residual ache in his jaw.
“Siw! As soon as we turned west, breaking our vow to the matriarchs, the Alwïryan became caught in a great struggle between the violence of the waves and the power of the winds. Feïwal, once again, saved our lives. He was able to steer the ship to this shore, west of the Gloren peninsula, though he could not prevent the Alwïryan’s ultimate destruction. Now we sing our praises to Eïwal Ffeyn, for it was the angry deity’s will that saved us from our doom.”
Roquendagor could not help admitting his admiration. “Your brother is inhabited by such unshakable faith. It is the source of the firm resolution and bold bravery he demonstrated. It saved us already twice.”
“Feïwal is the Guide of the clan. He was entrusted with the quest for the Llewenti Islands,” simply replied the beautiful seer. But in her tone, Roquen could perceive that she meant much more. Intrigued, he asked.
“How is it that this legend inspires such devotion?”
“According to the ancient tales left by the Llewenti queen, Llyoriane, a Stone formed the heart of the meteorite that hit the Islands. It carried within it the knowledge of the free Elves’ destiny. It was believed that glyphs and runes were inscribed upon the Stone by the deities of the archipelago.
For
us, who, at the beginning of time, had refused the invitation of the Gods, the Stone is our ultimate object of desire.” explained Arwela.
“So, this is what Feïwal is after. That alone will be enough to give him my support,” Roquen concluded before closing his eyes again.
*
To the east of the bay, ribbons of red cloud announced the birth of the day. The morning fog soon cleared. Flocks of seabirds circled the wreckage of the Alwïryan, diving down from time to time into the river in search of food.
The crew was quick to set to work, and before long they had formed a chain of Elves leading up to their former vessel. The Irawenti were particularly gifted for the loading and unloading of ships. They worked silently in a regular rhythm, obediently following the instructions of Luwir. Bags and crates were passed from hand to hand towards the shore, where a unit of guards, commanded by Maetor, waited to sort and store them.
Feïwal focused on his duties as captain, checking food supplies and ensuring that no valuable equipment suffered further damage. The other dyn of the clan of Filweni were at his side to support him, sensing the grief that afflicted him after the ship’s destruction. The Alwïryan was more than just a legendary vessel; it was a symbol of their freedom.
Many birds of all kinds gathered around the shipwreck as if to pay a last homage to the proud ship. The scout Gelros strolled among them, taming a small crow and a white seagull. He had a natural affinity and skill for communicating with animals, most of all birds. They seemed to submit willingly to him.
Towards the end of the morning, the gentle sea refracted a bright silver light in all directions, as the tiny waves of the river spilled slowly up its banks. Their work was complete. Along the shore, in the shade of the pine trees, they finally rested. While they were stunned by the beauty of that wild place, they mourned the loss of their ship, which lay mutilated.