The Lonely Seeker

by C A Oliver

  Curwë could not believe what he was hearing.

  “I laid eyes upon one of the blades of Nargrond Valley. I saw the sword that killed the king of the High Elves!”

  A light flashed in the Lonely Seeker’s eyes. “My friend, you have done more in a couple of years than the knights of Dyoreni have managed in several centuries. Your coming to the Archipelago must have been blessed by the Islands’ Deities.”

  “I haven’t really done anything. I just happened to survive… Who, then, could this Elf of many shadows be, and how did he come into the possession of that legendary sword?” wondered Curwë.

  “Moramsing, the dark blade of the East, has re-emerged just as the testament of Rowë is in danger. Its new master has come to protect it. He risked his life by challenging a knight sorcerer of the Golden Hand to a mortal duel. He recovered the precious will,” said Dyoren, but his mind was elsewhere, racing to find answers to the unavoidable questions now surfacing.

  “But this doesn’t make sense. In the end, we found the testament in the possession of Eno Mowengot, commander of the Golden Hand. Why would that mysterious Elf of Shadows kill one of the knight sorcerers and seize the relic from him, only to hand it over to their chief?” asked Curwë, thinking aloud.

  Still with warmth towards his fellow bard, Dyoren replied, “There is surely an answer to that riddle, my green-eyed friend. That Elf of many shadows was indeed on an errand to protect the testament. He intervened only after Mynar dyl’s troops lost it…”

  The moment he pronounced these last words, Dyoren suddenly stopped. His hand seized the pommel of his broad sword. The Lonely Seeker’s blue eyes shone with a new brightness.

  “A wielder of Moramsing cannot be easily tracked, believe me,” he stated, speaking more directly with Curwë now. “If he wants to remain hidden, he can do so…”

  Dyoren remained silent for a while. At last, an uncharacteristic smile crossed his face and he said.

  “Hope is restored. My sword, Rymsing, can feel at this moment that her sister blade is nearby. Nothing will stop us now. How strange! I had to wait until I was officially stripped of my title to start making progress… and regain the love and trust of my only companion.”

  Dyoren became thoughtful.

  “Compliance with the order of Oron is not always the best way to achieve one’s goals,” he said enigmatically. “But what is sure is that one must remain pragmatic. Hope is a combination of patience and perseverance. Just as a violin maker will carefully adjust the forty pieces that make up a cithara until its resonance is perfect, a Seeker must adjust the clues, all the elements which constitute the order, until the order is revised...”

  “What will you do, Dyoren?”

  “First, I must renew my equipment: ensure I have enough supplies for the hunt that is about to commence. I have not given up my quest. On the contrary, I have never been closer to reaching my goal than I am at this moment. Once the blade of the West is reunited with its sister from the East, it will be clear who should have been trusted...”

  As Curwë continued listening closely to the Lonely Seeker, he realized that Dyoren was constantly looking ahead: to next moves, plans for the future, and the means by which he would achieve his goals. It was as though he was utterly obsessed with fulfilling the hope that had been placed upon his destiny. In truth, Dyoren’s presence at his side was an illusion; the Lonely Seeker’s mind was already wandering far, to wherever his quest would take him next.

  Curwë could not help imagining what Dyoren’s life must have been since he was given his sacred sword. For decades, the Lonely Seeker had devoted his all energy and skills in pursuit of a hypothetical moment of glory: the day he would return one of the lost blades to the Arkys in their Secret Vale. He had foregone both love and friendship. Dyoren had come to see life’s simple pleasures as pernicious wastes of time that would only jeopardize the accomplishment of his dream. He voluntarily renounced living in the present moment; he saw it rather as an obstacle between him and his idealized future. His obsession with his quest was making him traverse that veil between present and future; he was almost losing his mind in the process, for he could behold today everything he would have to live through in days to come. Curwë had lost the thread of what Dyoren’s had been saying in a flood of uninterrupted speech. He managed to concentrate his attention again as the Lonely Seeker, excited as ever, spoke on.

  “Well, it’s like I’ve told you already. You still have much to learn, Green Eyes. Our laws were made by the Deities of the Lost Islands who love to plant their teachings through parables. A priestess of Eïwal Llyo once taught me that, contrary to what the beliefs of the High Elves claim, an Elf’s dignity does not depend on talents he receives at birth but rather on what he chooses to make of them. And, in that sense, what you achieved in Nyn Ernaly is of considerable impact, Curwë.”

  “What do you mean? I am no powerful Dol of the High Elves, still less a dyn of Eïwal Vars’ bloodline like the noble Green Elves. And I will never be so!”

  “I can see how, to a mind-set still governed by ethics of bloodlines and rankings, my way of thinking would seem like quite the revolution. I believe that across the Islands, all Elves are equal; whatever natural talents they have simply don’t come into it. What can earn you dignity and worth in the eyes of our Deities is not the gifts an Elf receives from nature, but how he chooses to use them. In that sense, Curwë, you have already accomplished far more than I have.”

  “I won’t hear that, Dyoren. You saved both my life and the testament. Without you, I would be no more than a pile of ashes by now.”

  Ignoring Curwë’s gratitude, Dyoren went on.

  “Believe what you want, Green Eyes. You still have time to understand. But know this: you are now one of us, one of the free Elves of the Lost Islands, true to our Deities’ faith. You belong with the Seeds of Llyoriane. It’s clear that you have great intelligence and strength of mind, but these are simply the qualities that fate has given you. Your nature is neither good nor bad in itself. But what you have made of it so far leaves little doubt about your virtue.”

  “I thank you for these kind words, Dyoren. They honour me greatly.”

  The Lonely Seeker continued his reasoning, almost talking to himself.

  “You are different, Green Eyes, very different to any High Elves I have ever met or read about. You have no fear. Almost all heroes, though they would never admit it, refuse the gifts that are granted by the Deities of the Lost Islands. They live in fear. Fear, like any other kind of overwhelming distress, prevents us from living in harmony as was promised to us. Such anxiety stops us thinking clearly. Fear of violent death is so strong among the immortal High Elves that they have become egocentric and paranoid. It is not so with you. You are not afraid of your death, and therefore you can live your own life freely, choosing to get the best out of whatever time you have. You seem to have understood that, in order to learn to live, you must first agree to die. It is this that makes you so strong. How is this so, my friend? Can you explain it to me?”

  “Your gentle remarks are perhaps true… but I cannot explain it. All these revelations are so new for me. You would probably find me ridiculous…”

  Dyoren looked his new friend in the eyes for a long time. Finally, he concluded.

  “Curwë, of all the High Eves I have ever met, you are by far the closest to the Green Elves. If you continue along this path, Eïwele Llyo will bring you under her protection. After your death, you could even escape Gweïwal Agadeon’s Halls, and live in joy for eternity, as a spirit of the forest.”

  The Lonely Seeker laughed: a fresh, generous laughter that he was unaccustomed to.

  “You laugh, Dyoren, but you might be closer to the truth than you think,” replied Curwë, who disliked being mocked.

  When he spoke again, Curwë’s tone acquired a new depth, as if he were trusting Dyoren with his most intimate thoughts.

  “I know that one day I will die, be it by the sword or by the dagger, because
I do not intend to spend my entire life fleeing the dangers of the world. I refuse to sacrifice my passions for the sake of immortality. Furthermore, I do not see death as the end of all things, as an everlasting imprisonment of the soul in the Halls of Gweïwal Agadeon. I see the end of our present life as a passage from one state to another, within a world governed by the Gods and Deities, a world made in perfect balance. I accept the cycle of life. I will one day die, like that apple will one day fall from its branch and decay upon the ground. Though the apple will cease to exist in one sense, the elements that make it up will live on. They will feed other beings, and perhaps one day another apple tree will grow in the very place it fell.”

  Night was coming. The two Elves had eaten a light meal of bread and fruits, and a white wine, local to the island, had quenched their thirst. Then, without warning, just as Curwë was looking forward to the comfort of his bed of leaves, Dyoren began getting ready to leave, collecting his belongings and checking his equipment. He barely took the time to wish his friend farewell. Curwë, surprised by Dyoren’s haste, struggled to adequately express his gratitude for all his effort, support and advice.

  “But where should I go next?” Curwë asked, now feeling anxious.

  Dyoren was restless, like he was hungering for action.

  “If your companions do not find you first, once you fully recover, you must go north to the sea. You will arrive at a vast beach called ‘Asto Salassy’. The army of Llymar is waiting for you there.”

  Dyoren removed the hut’s makeshift door and vanished into the night, like an actor disappearing behind a curtain. Curwë felt sure he heard a few words called out, though they were lost in the deep woods.

  *

  When Curwë opened his eyes the next morning, the hut was empty. The bard slowly removed his bandages and set about getting dressed. Clean garments, including a simple green tunic and soft leather boots, were laid out ready. They fitted him perfectly. The day grew brighter as he finished getting ready. Where all had been so dark, the forest of Tios Llyi now gleamed with a soft green light. The colours and smells swelled about him. Once he had left the glade, Curwë turned back for one last look at the small campsite where he had recovered from his injuries. It felt like, for the first time of his life, he was hearing the sounds of the forest: the silent songs of the Lost Islands. The feeling was so powerful that he had to lean on a tree to avoid falling over. The contact of his hand on the trunk seemed to instil the strength of the woods in his veins. He let that vivid flow flood through his body. The bard did not realize that he was being watched. Then, a voice was heard, its tone neutral.

  “Have you lost your way, Curwë of Mentollà?”

  The bard almost fainted at the surprise, feeling the shock all the more keenly with his fragile newfound vitality. Two silhouettes emerged from the shadows of the forest.

  “Aewöl, is that you?”

  In the dim light of morning, the one-eyed Elf and his servant, Gelros, stepped out into the glade. Curwë, overjoyed to see his two companions again, invited them to celebrate their reunion with the traditional ritual of the clan Filweni. Aewöl normally kept his distance from others, staying on his guard to protect himself and so he would not be found wanting. But, on this rare occasion, he felt such profound relief at finding his friend alive that he agreed to join him in this unusual outpouring of affection.

  Gelros pretended not to have heard the proposal. He was already busy inspecting the campsite’s defences. The scout felt such devotion to his master that, to his mind, it would be inconceivable to act so familiar with him. Aewöl walked over to Curwë. Each grasped the other’s left shoulder with their right hand, before the two friends repeated twice, in the tongue of the Blue Elves:

  “Mywon tyn!”

  Letting his emotions go, Curwë added with a smile.

  “This deserves music! I cannot believe it: Aewöl is embracing joyous Irawenti customs!”

  Aewöl was highly adaptive when it came to hiding his emotions; in daily life, he could almost always maintain a perfect mask to block others from knowing what he felt. Those who knew him better like Curwë, however, could sense that he was always struggling with many painful anxieties and also with a profound, personal insecurity. The distress he always felt hindered his relations with others and stopped him from enjoying the many gifts that nature had given him. But, in that moment, Aewöl smiled openly. He begged Curwë to return with him to Dyoren’s campsite.

  “Come, let us remain here. You need more rest. It is far too early for you to be out in the open. Gelros and I travel only at night; we stay hidden during daylight. There are tales of scouts of the Westerners roaming these woods. The forest rustles with rumours of your disappearance. All of Nyn Ernaly is after you, my dear friend. We are eager to hear your news.”

  Curwë warmly accepted the invitation and walked back into the glade. His strength was still very limited.

  “First,” he asked, “how did you find me?”

  “We hardly stopped looking once we discovered you had survived that dramatic fall into the ravine. But, despite all our efforts, we had no idea where you were hiding. It was Gelros’ night birds that found you in the end. As a matter of fact, it happened just this morning, as though the veil which had been hiding you was lifted by a mysterious wizard.”

  “You could not be closer to the truth,” Curwë confirmed. “All this time I have been with Dyoren.”

  “So the Lonely Seeker joined the battle of Lepsy Gorge?”

  “He did… well, in his own way. I believe he was trying to scale that cliff when I fell from it with the knight sorcerer. He probably had the same idea as me: to put an end to the battle by killing the commander of the Nellos army,” Curwë guessed.

  “Except you took the deadly initiative first. It could have cost your life,” said Aewöl with concern.

  “It was worth it,” Curwë smiled. “I understand that the battle was won. That’s not to mention the testament of Rowë...”

  “What are you telling me?” asked Aewöl, totally incredulous.

  Curwë shared his story in full. The bard detailed everything that had happened to him with great emphasis and flare, as though he were already composing an epic song that would recount his own feats. He spun the tale with his usual grandiloquence, more for entertainment’s sake than to boast. Aewöl usually kept his feelings to himself. But even though he had not yet fathomed everything his friend’s tale implied, in that moment he displayed his deep fondness and gratitude with a broad smile. He was now keen to tell Curwë his side of the story.

  “I am not sure the Elves can claim victory at the battle of Lepsy Gorge. In truth, when night fell at the end of that painful day, there was so much confusion that both sides were eager to retreat. The Elves of Llymar owe you a lot, Curwë, for, without any doubt, it was the death of their commander that prevented the Nellos army from achieving an all-out victory.”

  “What of our lord Roquen?” asked Curwë feverishly, ignoring Aewöl’s praise. “I saw him locked in furious battle with that bald warrior. Why is he not with you?”

  “The being who will defeat Roquendagor in single combat has probably not yet been born. Our lord fought ruthlessly, with all his heart. Having routed the prisoners’ guards, Roquendagor then defeated that monstrous warrior in hand to hand combat. This latest deed of his allowed us to free the prisoners, Curubor Dol Etrond and Camatael Dol Lewin. Roquendagor’s shoulder was seriously wounded and he was bleeding badly. We all retreated up into the hills to find cover. But, because the sun was rapidly setting, the Westerners did not follow us. We remained hidden in a cave all night,” recounted Aewöl.

  Curwë interrupted him with a sudden thought.

  “So, the two branches of House Dol Lewin finally met? I’m sorry to have missed that! I remember how Lord Roquen never replied to his cousin Camatael’s invitations, choosing lonely walks along the Arob Tuide paths over festivities in Tios Lluin’s temple of light.”

  “Roquendagor did not change h
is position. He said nothing about his origins. I believe he wants to leave behind all vestiges of his former rank. The words he spoke were few; our past did not come up once. We should all respect his decision and stop calling him Lord Roquen, even between ourselves,” recommended Aewöl.

  “I agree,” said Curwë.

  With a knowing smile, the one-eyed Elf continued.

  “You should have seen the two of them standing side by side in that dark cave, as Gelros attended to their wounds. They looked so similar and yet so different, almost like twin brothers separated at birth. Both are noble and haughty, possessing a natural majesty of their own. Yet while Camatael is thin and diplomatic, Roquendagor is strong and direct.”

  “One day or another, they will need to have a thorough, open discussion. Rivalry between the two branches of House Dol Lewin dates back several centuries. The two households are now ruined; each of them has now forsaken their vows to their respective sovereign. Both heirs have proven they are bound to the Lost Islands’ fate. Roquendagor and Camatael are now truly members of the Seeds of Llyoriane,” Curwë mused.