Once Were Men

by Marin Landis

  By his reckoning they had circled a huge hill and were making their way to the top of it, the rise so gradual that it did not seem as though they walked uphill. It was a pleasant forest path for most of the journey, the well spaced trees blocking any view of the residences they had seen earlier. Still there were families and couples and lone travelers on the wooded hillside and as did they all, welcomed Lentar and Kireim with shouted greetings and hugs. The children especially seemed overjoyed to see them and regarded the strangers with curiosity. That was another thing Melvekior found comforting; there was no hostility towards them at all. No harsh looks, or any visible desire to be away from them, though there was no attempt to touch them.

  After twenty minutes of gentle climbing their destination appeared; the trees opened up and the incline on which they stood opened up onto a small plateau, as though a shelf had been hewn into the side of the hill. A large house, but no bigger than many they had seen, lay before them. The path curled round until they stood at the door. Looking around, the building was similar to all the others, but it lacked the garden that graced every other house. Surely this wasn’t Aeldryn’s home.

  The door was open and come to think of it, all doors he has so far seen were open.

  “Haylan, your visitors are here,” Lentar said, in barely more than a whisper.

  “Wait,” blurted Melvekior, “ we came to see Aeldryn, I don’t want to disturb your King, or whatever the Haylan is…”

  A noise from inside the house interrupted his thought and the door opened. A familiar figure ducked beneath the top of the door frame and stepped into the sunlight, suddenly brighter than it had been.

  There he stood, looking more magnificent than even the Sun God had been, a thin tall figure, robed as ever he had been. His hair was the same sandy gray, his features severe like all of his people, the slight squint as if disapproving which changed to a joyous rounding of the eyes when he set his glance upon the quartet before him.

  “Oh, my boy,” he said, his voice cracking so slightly. He stepped forward and embraced Melvekior in his arms like he was a child as indeed, in that moment, he felt. All the memories of all the lessons and time spent reading and the hair ruffling and the chastising and the laughing encouragement to mischief; it all ran through his mind. This was why he had managed the numerous deaths and rebirths of his father so well. For this man, this Aelvar, was his true father. He who had raised him and taught him and guided him. His joy when he discovered his mother lived was minor in comparison to this moment. He knew in his heart that she was safe and in a place she had spent many years. He knew that she had been a dream for him, an impossible ideal that she had not met when she walked into his chambers. He knew that he held animosity towards her for abandoning him and that he would never tell her that, nor would he act like anything but the dutiful son. He would rescue her, he would seek out again his father and struggle against their common foe. He knew this, but he knew beyond all doubt, with faith greater than anything he had known ever, that his family, his real heart family, the ones he truly loved without reservation, that loved him no matter his pompousness and inflexibility and impetuousness, and wouldn’t desert or harshly judge him; he knew that they were here now.

  He knew that he and Ottkatla were to be together, to raise a family, to show them they joy he now felt. He knew he would ask Aeldryn to teach his children, to love them as he had done for him. His future spread out before him like a vast river. Most of the detail was blurry but that vision remained strong throughout.

  He buried himself deeper in the embrace and wept tears of joy. He tried to speak but his throat would not let him. When he looked up he saw that Aeldryn too had wept, Ottkatla as well, her strong hand gripping his arm and she smiled so warmly at him. The tall and ancient Aelvar turned to Lentar and Kireim and embraced them in turn and then Ottkatla. There was no ill-feeling that she was last, Melvekior imagined that he knew her least.

  “We should eat and have some wine, Melvekior, there is good wine here. Lentar, Kireim, go down and ask my wife to prepare my home for our guests. Siaahn will love to have an excuse to fill the house once again.” The two rangers raced, moving faster than Melvekior expected, off. ‘Off’ was the only word to describe it. They didn’t follow the path, but scrambled down the hill, appearing to be on the verge of almost falling but keeping perfect balance. It was eerily unsettling, but they were gone in mere seconds, leaving him no time to ponder it.

  Aeldryn took them each in hand, either side of him. “Come, it’s not far,” and he walked slowly forward, neither wanting to resist.

  “Is this not your home?” Melvekior asked, looking back at the building with no garden.

  “A home is not a home without a garden, my boy. That is my library and my workshop. I come up here to be alone. Now that you’ve spoiled that, we had better leave.” He laughed. It was a sound Melvekior cherished for he didn’t remember it happening a lot. He sensed that his relationship with his teacher had changed. For the better, but part of him was sad. The realization of childhood lost.

  Aeldryn’s house was impressively big, and the gardens breathtaking. It was unusual in that there were two stories to it. Aeldryn must be important here, thought Melvekior, wondering about the whole Haylan issue, but not wanting to raise it.

  “We are probably in time for lunch,” he announced as he swept up to the door and pulled it open.

  A figure launched itself from the inside of the house and barreled into Aeldryn. Both Melvekior and Ottkatla were so relaxed that they didn’t instantly move to draw weapons or fall into combat stances. He heard Ottkatla give a short exhalation, probably in surprise. It was a small girl, less than ten years old by the look of her and she held onto Aeldryn for dear life.

  “Misu, Misu, we have guests,” Aeldryn spoke softly. The girl’s head turned and her eyes widened. Her eyes were of the deepest blue, the whites as bright as a sun. No childish mind sat behind those eyes, mused Melvekior. Her hair was the blond that one sees only in children, braided and plaited into an intricate set of curls and twists yet still long to her dainty waist. She wore a light blue dress tied at the middle with a pretty floral sash.

  She dropped to the ground lithely and inclined her head to the side. “Honored guests, I welcome you to our home,” she spoke sweetly and stood aside that Melvekior and Ottkatla may enter. Her accent was slight; none would know that she was not a native speaker.

  “My daughter, Misulienne. Let not her appearance nor her manners fool you. Much about her is a game.”

  Melvekior was stunned. “Your daughter? But when…” he stopped, realizing what he was about to ask.

  “Yes, Melvekior, I am, after all, a man. It would not be right for me not to have children, though the Gods have cursed me to have such a one.”

  Misulienne looked up at her father mischievously.

  “Well, we are very pleased to meet you Misulienne,” Ottkatla stated, making towards the door. As she did, the child let go of the door and rushed forward.

  “Me first, strangers!” she shouted mockingly.

  They all laughed and Melvekior again was shocked. He didn’t expect any of this. He had imagined his tutor to live alone, with a pet raven or something, spending his days picking herbs and writing manuals of gardening and cooking.

  It was the first time they had entered a building in Vanakot and he was not disappointed. The quality of the furnishings and care taken with every item honestly made even his, now not his, palace in Maresh-Kar look like a pile of broken sticks and metal. Without getting a chance to properly look around, Aeldryn led them to a huge room, the centerpiece of which was an enormous wooden table carved with flowers and leaves. Even the thick legs were ornamental, shaped into the trunks of mighty oaks. The chairs were made from the same dark brown wood, the backs each carved into an individual scene. There were wood spirits on one, deer at a pond on another. Melvekior looked on, entranced, until all twelve scenes told a story in his mind. A tale he remembered being told many years ago o
f a man who loved a nymph and was turned into a stag for his impudence. The man of course was Aelvar and the ending didn’t seem a happy one.

  “Asilus, who loved too much,” intoned Aeldryn, noticing Melvekior’s interest.

  “Yes! I remember. You told me of this. This is amazing craftsmanship. Your artisans must be very talented,” marveled the young knight and then started laughing. “Of course. You made these didn’t you?”

  “Verily! It was a lengthy task, but one from which I learned a lot. You could do with such therapeutic activity, both of you. Stress is written all over your faces.” He pulled out a chair for himself. “Come, sit. We will eat and then you can tell me why you have come here.” Noticing their faces, he added quickly. “You are of course most welcome at any time, but I sense this is not purely a friendly visit.”

  They both sat and as they did so, Misulienne came careering into the room, closely followed by an adult woman. It was Misu’s mother, there was no doubt, their look was incredibly similar. She was tall, well over six feet and graceful, almost gliding into the dinning room, effortlessly carrying an enormous platter. She placed it on the table with a satisfied smile on her face and kissed Aeldryn firmly on his cheek. You could almost feel the love emanating from them both. For Melvekior this was the most unexpected thing of all. Why wouldn’t he expect Aeldryn to be like a normal man? Maybe because he was so different to everyone else he knew, he had imagined him above the normal processes and functions of life.

  He stood and embraced her warmly when she approached. “I am Aeldryn’s wife, the Haylenne, Siaahn is probably an appropriate thing to call me. It is what I was called as a child.” She laughed then, sweetly and melodiously. Melvekior looked about to see if he had missed a joke.

  Aeldryn looked amused but didn’t laugh, “My friends, this is my wife. She finds the weight of the years upon her amusing. Siaahn, you will know Melvekior and Ottkatla from my descriptions. I can make numerous guesses as to their intentions here, I thought you might stay for when they reveal them. That aside, they are welcome here for as long as they desire.” He indicated the platter that his wife had placed on the table.

  The food was unusual, yet sublime. Every taste was new to him and he tried to match the eating habits of his host, as taught by him as a child. There was no meat, he knew the Aelvar to eat nothing of flesh, but there was milk and there was also honey.

  “We have farms, Ottkatla,” Siaahn said. “The kine are free to roam and we have a symbiotic relationship with them. They suffer no danger from predators. It has made them more domesticated than I would have believed when we left Fan’a.” There was a strange sort of glottal stop in that word, he doubted he could say it like that.

  “How long ago was that, lady?” asked Ottkatla.

  Siaahn looked blankly and blinked a couple of times.

  “We do not measure time as you, Ottkatla,” Aeldryn piped up. “It was in the region of six centuries ago.”

  This was said with such nonchalance that Melvekior almost thought he had misheard. “You are that old, Master?” he blurted, reverting back to his honorific from childhood.

  “He’s as old as the hills that bore us, Melvekior,” piped up Siaahn. “Older even than I,” she winked at Aeldryn.

  “Why have you never mentioned it? That’s astounding…” he trailed off. Was this one of their jokes, they did seem to have an odd sense of humor here.

  “Customs and manners differ wherever you go, Melvekior, do you remember us talking of this,” Aeldryn responded as if reading his mind. “I have lived a long life relative to yours, but it’s what I’ve done within that time that’s important. To us, this is not notable.”

  “He says,” chimed in his wife, “but it’s not exactly so. Has anyone explained what the Haylan is, Mevekior? It might suit you to understand why he will be able to help you with your situation.”

  Melvekior looked over at Aeldryn, expecting to see some sort of disapproval. What he saw was attention to Siaahn, so he did the same.

  “Nobody yet has explained it fully. Lentar said that it means ‘the first among us’, so that is a leader. Aeldryn is the King of the Aelvar. He has the biggest home, the most respect, as far as I have seen, and the most beautiful wife.” Melvekior knew that diplomacy was a skill he had learned, but often wondered why he was not interested in using it. Here, he felt comfortable and able to be honest.

  “That is almost correct, apart from your final statement, which is utterly correct.” There was no pause or no smile, yet he felt her to be without vanity. The small differences between his people and these would take some getting used to. The visual clues to a person’s mood were either missing or very different. She continued, “Aeldryn was the first to leave Fan’a. His brother remained. They were, are, not, and I’m struggling to find the correct word, pure Aelvar, but Var, who were our masters in the far reaches of previous time. This is, you must understand, not a race that procreates via a melding of two but by an ascending of one.” She lifted her eyebrows and Melvekior nodded. He understood her words, the concepts, not yet.

  “I am following,” he said, nodding again.

  “When there was the Sundering those of us who felt love for our masters came with him, those others with Sjahothe went.”

  “My brother, in life and in Var,” said Aeldryn. “What might help you to understand is that you have met those who would be considered of the Var, Melvekior, though you name them, or know of them, as Anaurim.” Melvekior’s heart beat faster in his chest. Ottkatla gave a little yip of surprise. “I realize the implications to you in this, and I will say that I have no doubt that your father’s charade was necessary. Had Maedhras known of your existence, he would have slain you instantly.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Melvekior spoke slowly, deliberately. After so many shocks, he was not entirely taken aback, but he was finding it a challenge to get these events straight in his head. “You knew what my father was, is, and you came to look after me to protect me? Watch me?”

  “No, nothing so noble. Your father did me a great service and I repaid him by ensuring you were hidden and educated and parented.”

  “What did he do?” asked Melvekior.

  “He spoke to the dead,” Siaahn answered, ”he spoke to Misulienne.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Epilogue - Anaurim

  There were clouds outside, at ground level, for as far as one could see, even if, like the inhabitants of this room, you could with perfect vision for several miles, picking out individual leaves on trees and the insects upon them. The sky was colorless, not even the gray white of the clouds, but utterly featureless. As ‘not there’ as something could be. A void for lack of a better term.

  The temperature, should anyone have been outside the room, was nothing. There was an entire lack of heat and cold, in fact of air and wind. It was an sensory limbo. The building stood incongruous in the midst of this purgatorial wasteland, for how would it have been built? With which roads would a builder transport the materials? Without the means to breathe. No, this building, it was not real. It was the thought-form of a God, or one who believed Himself such.

  None in the room deemed to question their location. Their worries outstripped such idle curiosity, for one of their own was dying and the end was near. Death was unknown to them, though often they had sought it for several of their brethren. The fear they felt was also new. For what has an immortal to fear, but death and they believed that impossible.

  “How, Lord, how?” the woman said. Her mouth moved oddly as if she didn’t like to speak and spoke rarely.

  The Golden God who stood before the unmoving figure shook his head. “I know not. I have seen nothing like it, dearest. I would guess it Primitive. There is more at play here then we thought.”

  “Will he die?” she said the final word with what would have sounded like horror had she been able to muster the emotion in her host.

  Mithras shook his head again, distractedly. He looked at his old friend, his
once proud figure now blackened and shriveled to half its former size, hands clawed and face frozen in a rictus of anguish. “Not while I draw breath,” he said passionately. Ironically he didn’t draw breath, nor was there any air to breath.

  “Well, what will we…”

  “First things first. He is in stasis here. Nothing rots nor decays nor grows in this place.” He stalked around the marble slab upon which lay Tiriel, pacing for fear of growing violent. “He needs Aurim. We will take it from another.”

  “Who, Lord, there are…”

  “I don’t know!” Mithras shouted.

  Sehar cringed, the eyes of Bhav, mother of Melvekior looked to the floor.

  “What I do know is where Faerlen and Herjen are. We will set them here to look upon their brother.” He reached gently to touch the hand of his lover. Then they were gone.

  “Will you give up that form soon, my love?” Herjen purred moving closer to Faerlen as he sat before the fire. She was unclothed as was her wont and he paid no attention. She moved even closer, willing her skin as hot as the flames. He didn’t notice.

  “I like it,” he said looking up, but not in the manner that she wanted.

  “It grows old, my love,” she stated a little more firmly. “Take one that is young and handsome.”

  He looked up at her face and laughed a short laugh. “You are taken with the young Scion.”

  She gasped. “You believe him such?”

  “Events are cyclical, evolution from matter into spirit was easy enough, but who foresaw that Mikael would denounce us as not Gods and be correct?” Faerlen became more animated and he stood and started to pace, pointing his forefinger as if punctuating his words. His cave was not large but it afforded him space enough to think and walk at the same time. “None foresaw that, and fewer believe it. We know that the Primitives exist and we speak of them little for we fear them and are as children in comparison.” He stopped and looked at Herjen.