Morganne was overcome with sadness as she gazed upon the last page of the tome, reluctant to send its beautiful pages back into obscurity. Who knew how long it would sit on a sagging shelf in the monks’ scriptorium before anyone cared to pick it up again? To Morganne, such volumes held a miraculous power, for through them the dead got a chance to sing again, to share their lives, their world, even if only within the confines of some yellowed pages of parchment. Morganne was pained by the knowledge that the lovely, peaceful abbey of Evensong had met with such a violent end, never to be re-built. She wondered about the fate of the monk whose living hand had graced the pages before her with his steady, elegant script. Had the monks abandoned their home before it was overrun, or had they been caught by surprise like Solis? Either way, Morganne was grateful that someone had thought this little book of verse important enough to save, allowing her the honor of glimpsing Evensong as it was in its former glory.
Reluctantly, Morganne returned the tome to Jadon, describing to him its contents as best she could. Her passion for the tome was obvious, as was his amazement at the speed with which she had devoured it. Though he said nothing, Morganne detected a trace of concern in his expression as he handed her another tome. It turned out to be another from Evensong’s library, this time a more formal writing, documenting such things as the role of the abbot, the rules of the abbey, its history, its loyalty to the Order of Immar and connections with other monastic communities, as well as other details relating to the running of the abbey. While interesting, this was not the type of information she was looking for, and so she perused it quickly. The next morning she returned it to Jadon, receiving yet another concerned look as the next tome was placed gingerly in her hands. Weary though she was, she knew the moment she opened it that she had finally found something of relevance. However badly she needed it, sleep would not come early that night.
Let this writing stand as the final prophecy of Elead, a Prophet in the service of the Order of Aviad, witness to the passing of the Era of Varol.
The days of the Prophets are waning. The Ancients have been preparing our hearts for this time, strengthening us for the trials that are just ahead of us on the path. Though we do not know why this must be our fate, we understand that it is part of Aviad’s greater plan, and so we humbly accept it.
Dire times have led me to undertake an arduous pilgrimage to the ruins of the Creation Shrine. Our chronicles tell us that it was built long ago during the Era of the Shrines as an act of penance by a small group of monks. They carved it into the side of a mountain, as close as they could get to Aviad’s Peak, that holiest of places where Aviad touched his hand against the rock at the dawn of creation, and all green life spread forth. It was a treacherous task that took many seasons, but in the end, the shrine shone out as a glorious offering.
For hundreds of years it was sought by the pious and the desperate, until it was badly damaged in a tremor and the mountain reclaimed it. There is now nothing left but a few scattered pillars, smashed nearly beyond recognition by fallen rock. But when I knelt among the ruins and gazed upward onto that eternal peak, my restless soul was stilled, and the beauty and power of Aviad’s presence brought forth a rush of tears from my eyes.
I understood in that moment what had driven the monks to build the shrine there, and I knew why so many were willing to face exceeding danger in order to make pilgrimage to it. Had I enough time left in this world, I would have made it my solemn vow to rebuild the shrine. But alas, that is not Aviad's will for me. I have come here not to give my body up in physical work, but to be still and receive the fullness of His mercies.
While in prayer at the shrine I was given a message—the last one I shall share with the world before my time here is ended. Prophecy most often comes to me in the form of dreams, sometimes with strange images and disjointed events that require many hours of reflection before their interpretation is ready to be revealed to others. But on the mountain, I had a waking vision of astonishing clarity, such as I have never experienced before.
In my vision I was no longer at the shrine, but on the very top of Aviad’s Peak, which to this day no man has been able to scale. At my feet there was a small crevice from which a single flower grew, perhaps the same flower placed there at the beginning of time; pure and white as the snow around it, with velvety petals curving upward like hands raised in prayer. Tradition holds that Immar’s body was broken against this very mountain for our sake. Perhaps that is why I was taken here, for in all the lands, there is no more fitting place from which to see the world as it was, as it is, and as it will become if men do not heed the warnings bestowed upon them.
From my perch, I can see the last remaining Prophets, my brethren, disappearing past me into the mountain’s shadow. We have been hunted, tortured, and murdered because of what we are. The Shadow would forever silence our voices, for he knows that the words given to us by the Ancients hold the key to his ultimate defeat. My brethren look up at me as they pass. I can see by their faces what end has befallen each of them, and I know that their fate shall also be mine. But I go out to meet it with a peaceful heart, for there is no greater honor for a Prophet than to suffer in the service of the Ancients. Though we know that it is our time to fall back, beyond the Shadow’s grasp, we also know that the world shall not be abandoned.
Since time was first recorded by human hand, it has been the privilege of the Prophets to name each Era that marks the passage of our history, to determine when that Era has fulfilled its purpose, and a new one is ready to begin. Let there be no doubt, the Era of Varol has now ended and the Era of the Great War has begun.
My vision takes me further out, beyond the mountain ranges and onto the green and fertile lands where men dwell. I can see the lines of battle forming over the landscape, and as I watch those lines of battle meet, many good men perish. Abbeys and shrines are destroyed, relics, tomes, and other objects of power are lost. Some are hidden by those who would safeguard them from harm, and then they are forgotten. Others are destroyed, or fall into the hands of the enemy. Humanity teeters on the verge of despair. I pray with a sickened heart, is there no hope left? Why receive this vision if only to be a witness to the end of all things?
But humanity continues to fight, as we have always done, against pain, fear, grief, and hopelessness...against every trial the Shadow has set before us. This new era has betrayed the Shadow’s desperation. He has launched a new assault against humanity with greater force than any have yet seen. Still we persevere. The resolute will of men and the strength of their faith take the Shadow by surprise. Varol’s staff decimates his armies. Even with the Black Shrine raising them up to fight again, his minions continue to lose ground against us.
The carnage of battle finally fades away. The Great War is over and the Shadow’s armies seem to vanish. Upon fields that were once red with blood, new villages appear that quickly grow into towns and great cities. Humanity is graced by a long period of peace during which to flourish and rebuild. My heart at first rejoices in our apparent victory. Yet when I look closer, I can see a growing darkness beneath the surface of the world.
The Shadow has been wounded, but he is not defeated nor does he sit idle. He continues to plot against us, only his strategy must change. If he cannot overcome us in battle, he will subvert us by guile and deceit from hiding, where he rebuilds his strength and looks for a way to secure Alazoth’s return. Beware the one who is mortal yet never dies. His appearance is a sign that Alazoth’s return is near, and because of him, many shall be deceived and perish, both in body and soul. Hosts of foul beasts will emerge, not only from the Rift, but from many broken places in the earth.
The vision leaves me, and I remember that I am still sitting amid the ruins of the Creation Shrine. For a long while, I can do nothing but lie breathless against the cold mountain rock, gazing up at Aviad’s peak. The experience has left me dangerously weak in this exposed wilderness. Still, I am grateful for the gift entrusted to me, and for the message of hope ins
cribed upon my heart; so long as Aviad remains our guide, He shall see us through the dark hours of our history and not forsake us.
As I prepare to cast off this corporeal shell, I can do nothing more than impart my final words of wisdom to all who are left behind. May the enduring scars of our wars against the darkness remind us not of what we’ve lost, but of what we have managed to hold onto, despite our many trials. The Shadow is powerful, and we are weak. To deny that truth leads us down a dangerous path that ends in our destruction, for it is only by our own free will that the Shadow may overcome us.
Humanity must remain vigilant, for if the Shadow cannot cut us down by force, he would lull us to sleep and poison us with complacency. He would like nothing more than to see a great distance grow between us and our Creator. Yet even the dark forces cannot deny the greatest truth of all ...that the Ancients shall always be more powerful than the Shadow. They invite us to dwell in their will, rather than our own, and therein lies our greatest defense and surest protection from evil.
The hour has now come when I must lay down my pen and allow others to finish the work of this tome. I shall bear my sword in one hand and the Tome of Aviad in the other, and stand with my brethren against the encroaching darkness. May the chronicles of history record that the Prophets gave their last to the Glory of the Ancients.
The next few pages contained illuminations and notes relating to the Prophet’s vision. After that came a section that depicted Aviad’s Shrine as it was believed to have looked when it was whole, followed by a detailed description of the ruins as they were in the day of Elead the Prophet.
The rest of the tome contained a variety of texts, all seemingly inscribed by different people at different points in history. Many of them documented events happening during the Great War that seemed to confirm the fulfillment of the Prophet’s message, including page after page of names of important people who were known to have perished. Other sections listed tomes, relics, and other objects that had been destroyed or that were missing. Lastly, mention was made of whole towns, abbeys, monasteries, shrines, and other locations that had been razed by the dark forces during the war. The abbey at Evensong was among them, but much to Morganne’s disappointment, no detail was given as to what had happened to it, or to the monks who had been living there. Perhaps their memory was kept on the list of those who had fallen, only she had no way to recognize them.
Toward the end of the book, Morganne came across a rather strange bit of text written in forceful script. The scribe noted that he had found some loose pages in the ruins of a monastery, obviously torn from a prophetic tome. Where the rest of the tome had gone he did not know, but he felt the scraps were worth preserving, incomplete though they were, and so he copied their message into the book. The prophecy described a future era when Alazoth’s return would be secured by one who was “cloaked by death." It said that once Alazoth began his nightly watch “no man over the whole of the world would find peace.” The prophecy spoke of sickness and famine, and of “plagues of beasts emerging from the depths of the earth.”
The Hounds were cited by name, as were trolls, and several other horrific creatures she had never heard of. One of them could have been the beasts gathering in the mountains, but the description was far too vague for her to be sure. Another tome was mentioned that supposedly cataloged all the Shadow’s known minions in detail, including their habits, where they hide, and what their greatest physical weaknesses are. But the scribe warned in a side note that the mentioned tome was regarded as scandalous due to suspicions about how such intimate knowledge of the enemy had been acquired. A number of monastic communities believed the tome to be cursed and banned even its mention, for bad things seemed to befall any monastery that housed it.
Morganne couldn’t help but think that the information in such a tome would be exceedingly useful to Glak, but of course she had no idea where to find it. Perhaps the tome had been kept in the same monastery where the scraps of parchment had been found, in which case it might have been destroyed long ago. At the very end of the copied text, there was a brief mention of “a dark shrine brought back to life” but Morganne did not understand what that meant, and there was nothing more written about it.
When Morganne finally tore her eyes away from the last page of the tome, the faint gray light of morning’s approach had already begun to touch the sky. She wrapped the tome back in its cloth, then dropped down onto her bed, a wave of exhaustion sweeping over her. There was a growing sickness in her stomach that was not born of illness, nor of fatigue, but of fear. People had indeed grown complacent, as the prophet feared. The more she read about the old wars against the Shadow, about the horrors that befell the innocent, and of the chaos and destruction left in the wake of the dark armies, the more she was convinced that the world she knew was not prepared to endure such an onslaught. For all the advances men had enjoyed over the last age, they had forgotten the true source of their strength. Surely they would crumble under the Shadow’s weighty fist. Solis had been the first battle in the Shadow’s impending war, and humanity had suffered a brutal defeat.
Morganne could only imagine with horror what it must have been like for the people of Solis...to be going about their business, just as they might any other day, with no cause to think that their demise was but a few moments ahead of them. What must have gone through their minds when they first realized that their village had been surrounded by monstrous beasts? What did they feel as they were set upon, as they watched loved ones fall at their feet just moments before the pain of death took them also? Did they panic and try to flee? Did they face their attackers, weapons in hand, ready to fight? No one would ever truly know, for not one had survived to tell the tale.
Morganne tried to free herself of the horrible images haunting her as she wondered what sort of courage might lie buried in her own soul. Should the trials her ancestors endured be forced upon humanity once again, how would she manage to face them? What would she do if the beasts overcame Minhaven and came charging toward Elowyn, or little Adelin? Morganne quickly shut the thought out of her mind, but not before a gush of terrified, angry tears escaped her tightly closed eyelids. The sting of her own inadequacies tormented her, leaving her to question why she had been chosen to live through such a time, when everything good seemed to be ebbing away into a quickly growing nightmare. The prophets had asked the same question long ago, but they had taken their fate in stride, bearing their pain without lingering in bitterness over the unfairness of what had been asked of them.
Morganne took pride in all that she had accomplished since the day she walked out of her mother’s cottage and refused to look back. Young though she was, she had jumped headlong into the responsibilities of adulthood and earned the respect of many in the community. She still marveled each day at how her fortunes had changed in such a short time. But in the face of her fears, none of that seemed to matter anymore. And as much as she loved Elowyn and Adelin with all the ferocity their true mother should have, carrying the burden of their well-being alone was wearing on her. She was painfully aware that if anything bad befell either of them, the fault was her own for bringing them with her.
In that moment, Morganne felt more like a frightened child than an adult, and wished, as she often had when she was very small, to know the shelter of a loving father’s protective arms. All her life she had clung to a faint memory that she believed was of her father. It was so fragile that trying to hold it in her mind was like grasping at a wisp of smoke. The harder she peered into its shifting haze, the more it dissipated, until she could do nothing but let it slowly gather itself together again in the back of her mind.
There was blinding sun, warm against her face, and a salty, ocean smell. She was playfully lifted up high in the air by two strong hands, then embraced tightly. She could not see who had picked her up, however hard she tried. But the vibration of a man’s booming voice resonated through her as she pressed herself against his chest. In that moment, she had felt loved, and secure
, more so than at any other time in her life since. She could remember nothing more.
The memory was one that had often comforted her in her darkest moments of despair. Yet it had also tormented her to the point of tears. Somehow, she had lost him. Why had he left her? Where had he gone? And why hadn’t he come back? Perhaps her mother’s anger had driven him away, unless it was his absence that had left her so bitter that she could no longer feel any love in her heart. Like Elowyn, Morganne had pressed her mother many times for answers without success, and she had always hated her mother for her stubborn silence. Morganne would have given anything to feel that embrace again, brief though it might have been.
Morganne sobbed silently into her night clothes, trying not to wake Elowyn and Adelin, for she had no desire to reveal her innermost sorrows to them. She was resolved that they would never witness her moments of weakness. She would hold her younger sisters in the protective arms that she had always longed for, even when her outward strength was only an illusion she created by sheer will alone. She owed them that sense of security.
Ancient Voices: Into the Depths Page 14