by T. M. Lakomy
“So you are here, mortal man. Before the eldest of earth you sit. I bid you welcome, though you would have been once deemed a stranger among us as a persecutor of those who venerate us.” His tone was grace itself, and held neither judgment nor curiosity, certain of its inexorable command. He extended a kingly hand towards his merry people, and an elf maiden came bearing two goblets.
“To life and friendship and the fashioning of paths and ways beyond the hidden machinations of Lucifer,” the elven king said gravely, his majestic eyes reflecting the moonlight. Then he brought the goblet to his lips with a knowing smile, and Mikhail also drank deeply. He found it was pleasantly sweet as honey, golden of hue, and potent.
“What would you want of me, O wise one, with someone whose duty has been to the church, to enforce its edicts?” Mikhail rose to his feet and smote his chest. “I have sinned against your people, and chastised them for their pagan ways. I deemed you fables, demonic, far from the grace of God. And in that I have been much mistaken and blind!” Mikhail’s sincere anguish was etched on his features, and his eyes were quenched of their fire.
But the elven king rose to his feet, his emerald gown billowing in some unseen breeze. The clouds rolled back to reveal the Milky Way, and he pointed delicately to the stars as though tending blossoming flowers.
“Behold these immortal stars that forever bear testimony to the stories of earth, no matter how they may be distorted. While we mock them for the tiny light they give out, one has only to depart earth and draw near them to realize we are nothing but dust in their proximity.” The king smiled, his eyes hooded. “We watch and observe, and have relinquished the stewardship of earth to mankind, for our time is over. But the pathways of the Twilit, which we built, are forever open. And so the tenuous thread that holds our worlds apart remains, precariously thin and fragile. We watch but do not hinder. You have killed all the beauty of the earth. Its immortal spirit lies in a mire of its own blood, for you have drained her of magic. By erecting the stark steel of blind dogma you established Samael as your beacon. That is why your churches are fallible to rot and ruin.”
The elven king drank deeply from his goblet and held it to the moon. “To the everlasting miracles!” he cried out softly, and his countenance darkened briefly like a passing storm. “You worship the god of lies, whether in churches or as heretics hidden in secret covens. And you war against each other, proclaiming the other damned. But you are all lost, for the many houses of human religion are held by the string of the same master puppeteer.” His face held bleak judgment.
“But there are the righteous among us,” Mikhail responded meekly, “who strive to bring the holy laws of mercy to earth and establish justice. We do what we can with whatever knowledge we have.”
The elven king lowered his eyes to the ground, and when he lifted them imperiously they were as yellow as amber. “We are demons to you, and your people are responsible for our death in this sphere. We forgive you not, for you have robbed us of our rulership on earth, though in that you have all paid a price.”
Mikhail stayed silent, diverting his gaze towards the merry folk. “Demons they became,” he finally spoke, “and the Horned God made into the devil that we revile. Yes, that much is true, and I for one have been guilty of that sin. But then why bring me here if not to slay me and wash the groves that we defiled with my repenting blood?”
The elven king smiled and beckoned to a goblet bearer. Taking the flagon, he poured more of the honey-colored wine into his cup, then beckoned to Mikhail to come closer. Pressing a slim finger to his brow, he stared into Mikhail’s bewildered eyes.
“Believe, and let us in,” the elf said, “and through you we shall bring redemption, though the antichrist is certain of his victory.”
Mikhail stared back at those ageless eyes and felt fear and awe, for in those eyes were the connecting veins of the earth, and upon his shoulders sat the weight of creation’s balance. The eldest of all was before him, the Horned Elf, the Stag God. Mikhail turned away, unable to surmount the hypnotic pull of his eyes.
“Let us in and believe,” repeated the elf. He beckoned to the dancers and they gathered around Mikhail with their glittering eyes, and their laughter was sweeter than the wine. Then they led him into the dance. As they danced around him, his dazed eyes could not follow them, for they were like blurs of evanescent dream, and the air was heady with their perfume. A lonely figure detached herself from the dance, and gliding like a moon ray she drifted toward him.
“I gift you with mercy, that it may always sit upon your brow,” she said. There were crimson roses in her hair, and she kissed his brow fleetingly before blending back into the crowd.
“I gift you with justice, that your right arm never sway from it,” said an elf lord with an emerald on his brow. He gripped Mikhail’s arm tightly in friendship, leaving a trail of heat coursing through him.
“I gift you with severity, for in the darkening tide that shall come, you must be steadfast,” said an elf maiden sternly, and her words were a merciless reprimand.
Then a dark-haired elven child came forward, clutching a flower in his hand. He tugged at Mikhail insistently without meeting his eyes. Mikhail knelt to greet the timid child, who whispered softly into his ear.
“I gift you with death, that it may free you, then you shall be reborn of the Twilit path.”
He pressed the flower into Mikhail’s hands revealing his dreamy, impassive blue eyes. The thorns of the flower pricked Mikhail’s fingers, and he bit back a cry of surprise. Then he saw within his bleeding palm that he held a thorny rose. He looked up at the dancers, whose sage faces mirrored the same beauty and austerity as their king, and the message of the child was reflected in their eyes. He rose to his feet, realizing their faces were languid with sadness.
“I implore your forgiveness on behalf of my brethren and myself,” Mikhail called out beseechingly, his voice rippling over them. Then he reached for his neck and with effort ripped the cross from it and flung it as far away from him as he could. “Have pity on those that were nurtured lies and fed deceit, for we children of the earth have been robbed of a true guardian and left to battle evil in blindness!”
Still the sad faces revealed nothing, and they danced in silence, quenched of joy, with the music extinguished and the starlight revealing their ghostly pallor. Mikhail could no longer descry the colors of their raiment or the brilliance of their shining eyes, for the light of the moon had waned. The merriment and blithe countenances were now stark and wistful, and as he approached them tentatively they drew away, twirling faster with their hidden faces towards the moon. They were filmy pale and almost translucent now, like ghostly visions in a hazy moor, ethereal and distant as a lost echo doomed to perdition.
Their tender eyes fixed him wistfully with one last look, then they faded away entirely. The whispers of their mesmerizing music evaporated, but their soft footsteps lingered, and Mikhail felt his heart break. They were gone, and even the goblet he once held had turned to rust and disintegrated. He stood there in shock and bewilderment, unable to comprehend what had befallen him. He could no longer recall the melodies he had heard, nor remember the taste of the wine. The gasping ache that brooded in his heart now opened and bled his sorrow.
“Do not weep yet, O Templar, for not all things that depart are lost forever,” came a familiar voice.
Mikhail turned to the corner of the clearing and there, like an ephemeral vision clad in burnished brown and gold, Estella emerged. On her brow rested a single ruby that reflected the smoldering furnace of her iridescent eyes, those eyes that recalled to Mikhail suddenly the lynx he had admired so much in his youth.
She stepped out, lifting her lithesome limbs to greet the moonlight. Then she approached him slowly with the gait of a feline and the cunning of a hawk, seeking as forever to delineate the contents of his heart with a single stare. What he felt there in the clearing, beholding this formidable woman, he could not completely comprehend. He finally understood her nat
ure, and he respected it, rebuking himself for trying to break her and mold her into his image of a pious woman. It seemed to Mikhail that his life had hinged on this single precious moment; seeing his beloved glide towards him with her eyes burning just for him. But something was different with her, it lay in the softness of her smile and the easy tilt of her head as she circled him, and he wondered to himself what it could be.
Estella finally approached him, and he saw that her golden silk gown was woven with feebly glinting runes. He stood there as stoic and rigid as stone, wary and unwilling to move lest he startle her. He was unsure what would befall him if he were to touch her. Would she evaporate like a mist or disintegrate like a mirage as the elves had done? Or would she transform into the figure from his nightmares and mock him? His heart ached with every glance she cast at him. She was as regal as the great felines of the eastern kingdoms, and he pined for her. Through the fissures in his guarded heart, his love and yearning leapt. Estella finally sprang at him laughing, contentedly pulling him into her embrace.
They held each other silently, seeking solace in each other arms. He could feel her breathing against his cheek as she held him tightly to her heart. Many moments went by before he finally detached himself gently from her embrace. He touched her cheeks and the arch of her brow with joyful reminiscing, delving into her dark eyes and seeking the truths she artfully hid from him. It was Estella, yet something was changed, and he gripped her anxiously, fearful of some devilish trickery. She smiled at him knowingly, touching his face tenderly and tracing her fingers over the weary lines that took their course across his brow.
“You are aging, Templar, and I thought you would endure forever.” Her carefree tone was soft, but the lightness did not reach her eyes. He nodded gravely and pushed her chin up to him to contemplate her face fully.
“You are the most infuriating woman in Christendom,” he remarked, “but then I recall you are no Christian, rather something that was born a thousand years too late.”
She grinned at him wickedly, her sharp eyes teasing. “Well if you looked outside of Christendom you would find many more intractable women like me. Remember, you always saw what you wanted to see, through the blinkers of your path, and maybe so did I. But you see now so I forgive you. And I can see your heart has changed and you have cast aside your old self. I came back here to meet you again, to promise you something.” Suddenly the forced laughter died from her eyes and she pulled away from him fretfully, grasping him merely by the hands.
“Speak to me Tsura, Dancer in the Dark. For I have lost my path and you have denied me another. I lay hanging in the balance of things, stranded!” Mikhail implored her sadly, sensing her grief but rejoiced at the loving concern radiating from her eyes.
“No, you are not stranded, for you know not the true meaning of being an eternal wanderer. In this world the chessboard is between the gods, and we are often forgotten or tormented. But behold, I have extricated myself from the cruel game!” She lifted her arms to the moon and her eyes welled with tears that fell glittering on her face. Then she threw herself into Mikhail’s arms and kissed his lips passionately.
“Mikhail, whether through good or evil, my sight has been taken from me. I am unseen by them, and they can no longer seek me out, for I am shrouded in the shadow of the elven kings. All I have now is foreknowledge and wisdom and a deep well of thought. My sight brought me too close to the throne of God, and his sight burned me every day. I shivered in endless turmoil, for I stared too far into the void and it bled my eyes, detaching me from sanity, and my madness thrived upon my gift. I had become the ideal weapon for the chessboard of the gods, and the instrument most desirable. But look not despondent! It has been severed from me, yet I have not forgotten what I know, nor has my wisdom lessened. I can look and take steps back and comprehend things better, having passed through the gates of the living into the valley of death and traversed it.”
Estella spoke softly, as if musing to herself, and then Mikhail realized the truth of her words. What had struck him first when he had seen her was the torment she patiently bore. She had suspended the weight of her woes majestically over her head like a crown, and now that it was lifted, only her inner light shone through.
“What have they done to you, Tsura?” He held her head in his hands soothingly and kissed her brow. She wrapped her arms around him and sighed.
“Nothing that is not for the best. But I am here for a different purpose than to speak of this. I have passed the gates of mortality, and by dawn I will cease to exist on earth, so listen closely before time runs out.” She let go of him, taking a step back and grasped his hands with urgency.
“You must die here on earth. Let the sickness consume your body, but do not fear, for there is nothing that can rob your spirit of its repose. You will be reborn again once the antichrist has come into the world and ascended his celestial throne, sure of his victory. Then you will return. I shall always be there by you, stewarding you through childhood to manhood, till the right time comes for you to take up the sword and challenge the fiend of this age.
“I have gone myself, and I have no grave on earth. Through the grace of the elven king I have drunk the goblet of sweet death and found deliverance. It is the same for you. There is no way you can vanquish this coming evil or forestall the wickedness of the queen, who is drunk on self-pity and the lust for retribution. Come with me, die to earth and all creation, and we shall return as redeemers of all!” she supplicated him with tears in her eyes, her candor surging forth, and her love with it.
“But you do not love me at all,” Mikhail replied. “That angel that watched over you loves you, and in him you have found a kindred spirit. Wherefore would you want to escort me through my future travails, should I indeed choose that course?” The frost that had once edged his every word was gone, and he was merely Mikhail with a broken heart.
“All the spells of earth are shattered, and my eyes opened by the elven king,” Estella said. “I see you clearly now, and know that when you incarnate as one of us, I shall find you to be what I have always hoped for. I have loved you in my own fashion, and I know what you will become—the one who could hold my heart and be strong enough to guard it.”
Mikhail smiled at her with a youthful, mischievous glint in his eyes, holding her tight and brushing away strands of hair from her face.
“And what had you always hoped for? You, who have softened the hardest recesses of my cold heart?”
She did not answer at first, but when she did a light blush came to her face. “I waited for one who knew how to admire the freedom of wild things, and who knew how to pursue us without desire to conquer, who would go to the ends of the earth to seek us.” She broke away from him and her expressive face was sad. Beyond the trees came the lightening of the skies, once black and now cerulean.
“Die and let the fairy fever ravage you and consume you, and through your death you shall be reborn again, savior of mankind and my true love.” She wept now, her lips trembling as the dawn began to creep upon them. Already the kindled stars began to wane and gutter out and her voice became distant and ephemeral. He ran to her distraught, but found he could not grasp her, for she was immaterial. Then they both wept long and hard, and he fell to his knees in mourning.
“Then I will never see you again?” his grating voice put to words what his heart could not surmount.
“Yes, you shall. I will never leave your side. When you are of age and secure in your wisdom, you will meet me again. Till then do not allow the pain of our separation to deter you from your path.”
The spear shafts of dawn pierced the remnants of the lingering night, and one such shaft pierced into the clearing, and the beautiful mist instantly died. Estella stood like a vague, quivering vision, suddenly grey, and even her laughing eyes were lifeless. She waved her arms as Mikhail desperately threw himself at her, seeking to clasp the fragments of the evanescent vision only to be greeted with the cold light of morning. Nothing remained of her, not the
musk of her perfume or the imprint of her shoes in the ground. The clearing, once rich with mystery, was now barren and mundane, and he suddenly hated it and wept bitterly. As sunrise strode into the heavens hunting the shadows, Mikhail rose to his feet dolefully, seeking his way home. A lonely stag following him distantly with soft brown eyes full of recognition.
THE WAY BACK to his jail was arduous. The thickets and brambles tore at his clothes, and the boughs of the trees snagged his hair while his failing health returned with a bitter vengeance. Gasping for breath, he let himself be led by the stag, who nudged him at times when he thought he would lay down and let his sickness triumph over him there alone in the woods. At last he could see the trees lessening. Then the stag departed, and he knew then he was approaching the end of his mortal story. Gathering his strength, he made his way past the trees into the cultivated gardens of the monastery. There was a commotion there—no doubt his mysterious departure had caused a frantic hunt. Quickening his pace, he strode past the gardens, greeting the bewildered peasants who stopped their work to stare at him. Seeing the holy radiance in his eyes, they bowed deeply, the women averting their eyes humbly.
When the monks caught sight of him some rushed inside while others brandished the batons they used to discipline the workers. Mikhail laughed at the sight of them, and they faltered before reaching him, unmasked awe on their faces at seeing one who had been touched by the fay. A call resounded in the distance, and Mikhail saw a knight upon a chestnut horse blowing a horn. He recognized him instantly and laughed heartily, calling out his name.