The Yjind Mountains open their arms to embrace Elmariyë as the golden sun sets behind them, sending shimmers of brilliant color across the sky and changing the lingering clouds from gray-white to various hues of purple, blue, and pink. She pushes Fenarion on until it is almost dark and the lingering light of dusk is dwindling, and then she pulls aside into a dense grove of trees. Here she sets up what little camp she can: a tent of leather pulled over two stakes of wood and a pole and a bedroll of hide and fur. After making sure that Fenarion is tied firmly to the nearest tree and gathering her meager belongings into the tent, she lies down and buries herself deep in the furs to keep warm against the quickly deepening chill. This is not the best place to rest for the night, particularly for a woman, but Elmariyë feels more or less secure, for the chances of someone happening upon her location in the darkness of the night are next to nothing.
And so it is, as she wakes with the first light of morning just breaking over the land to the east and painting the sky a rose white to complement the vivid hues of twilight the evening before. She rests for a while in the warmth of her sleeping roll, upon her knees with her head against the earth—the traditional position of prayer for the worshipers of Niraniel—and then rises. The air is quite cold, and she finds herself shivering at the sudden change, her breath spiralling before her face as pale mist. After pulling her cloak tight about her and stamping about a bit to get the blood flowing through her body, she packs up camp and feeds Fenarion a few morsels to supplement the grass he was able to munch while tied to the tree. "Good boy. You have done well. Only one more day of this, and we will be there. If all goes well, by this evening you will be feasting on all the hay you could desire."
With this, Elmariyë unties the horse and climbs into the saddle, which is bitterly cold against her thighs. She looks up eagerly at the sky and hopes that the sun will soon warm the air and dispel at least some of this biting chill. Yet as the day wears on and the mountainous trail rises ever higher among the rocks and cliffs, the air does not become warmer but colder. She keeps herself insulated as best she can, but there is only so much she can do. Even the look of the land around her speaks of cold, since a white fog, thin and nearly translucent, cloaks everything, causing objects that recedes into the distance to be hardly more than silhouettes of themselves. And above her, the clouds themselves are dense and low-hanging, garmenting the mountains like a cloak carelessly thrown over the shoulders. The trail winds tightly now against rough and steep crags of rock, dark stone with lighter veins of white or gray, switching back again after a few hundred yards or a quarter mile to traverse upward in the opposite direction, all the while nearing a sprawling valley at the base of two enormous peaks in which Elmariyë's family lives.
She glances over her shoulder and sees the Plains of Melroc spread out beneath her, no more than a ghostly reminiscence of the shapes of trees undulating upon a sea of green, brown, and yellow. But even as she looks, the sun pieces for a moment through the clouds and illumines her sight, and she squints her eyes to see as far as possible. The city of Ristfand is not visible, either too far away now, or too densely covered in the icy moisture hugging the face of the earth. Nonetheless, she brings it before her mind's eye and the people dwelling within it, in their daily occupations of work and play, and beyond the city, she envsions the great expanse of the sea. In contrast to this, she turns back and imagines what awaits her ahead, nothing more than a wide steppe or valley in between mountains, with scattered homesteads hiding among the rocks and varied copses, a two-dozen or so families who share a rugged life together while each keeping their own plot of land. Here their sheep, cattle, a pigs graze, and together the families share the fruit of the soil and of their labor with one another, as they have done for over two centuries.
Soon the imagining turns to reality, as Fenarion carries Elmariyë over the last rise and a stretch of land unfolds before her, mostly flat with only a few undulating hills, cradled in a high valley between the mountains. It immediately strikes Elmariyë as mysteriously beautiful in its earth-sheltered and sky-veiled serenity and stillness. Across the plain she rides now, her heart beginning to swell with the expectation of seeing her family again after three years. She knows the land well and has no trouble finding her way to the two standing-stones that mark the limit of her family's farmland. From here she follows the rocky trough of a well-worn trail weaving among the grass and the fields to a wooden house and a stable standing not far from the base of a tall and stony cliff, down which trickles a narrow but fast-moving stream, descending from rock to rock until coming to the crevice that the water follows across the land to the south and, presumably, all the way until joining a larger river or the sea itself.
Elmariyë dismounts from the horse and leads him by the bridle to the stable, in which another horse is already kept, a mare with which she is well acquainted, and who has been named Trostir. She gives Fenarion a few shovels full of hay, unties her pack from behind the saddle and throws it over her shoulder, and momentarily caresses the horse on the face and neck. Then she turns toward the house. But after only a couple steps she sees a figure approaching her from the same direction. It is her father, his time and weather-worn face glowing with a radiant smile and his arms open in a gesture of welcome.
"Pa!" she exclaims without a thought and picks up her pace.
"My dear Mari'eä, welcome home!"
"It has been too long."
"It has been as it must be," her father replies as he grabs his daughter's shoulders and holds her at arms' length, as if to get a good look at her, before burying her in his embrace. "But it is good that you are here."
She simply rests in his arms for a while, his large stature enfolding her own smallness, feeling his raspy breathing after too many bitter winters, with lungs that sound weak but are strong, and his stubble tickling her forehead. Finally she speaks and says, "I am sorry I did not tell you that I was coming."
"Why? Why would you apologize for that?" he replies, holding her out to look at her again. "So as to warn us, as of impending danger? There is no need."
She smiles at this.
"Ah, your mother will wish to see you," her father says, grinning widely. "I would love to witness the look on her face when she beholds you—our own daughter, yet even more graceful and beautiful than before."
The encounter with her mother is even more beautifully-awkward than that with her father (such things do not matter with family), as Elmariyë's mother, in the process of washing a large pot used for cooking stew, promptly drops it when she sees her daughter approaching, arm in arm with her husband. And if that was not enough, she drops it on her foot and cries out in pain as it rolls for a few feet across the kitchen floor until stopped by Elmariyë, who lifts it up and places it back on the worn wooden table that lines the wall.
"Are you hurt?" her daughter asks, rushing to her mother.
"I am quite alright, yes..." the woman replies without a thought. "Oh, what am I saying? I am wonderful! It is so very good to see you." Then she pauses for a moment and her expression grows more seriously, even if her eyes continue to twinkle with gladness. "But do forgive us for not making it to one of the greatest moments of your life."
"I did not expect you to come to my profession and initiation into the temple," Elmariyë replies. "The road is long and treacherous, especially for someone your age. I would have resisted your coming had you tried."
"Nonsense," the woman says, "it was our daughter's own special moment."
"But it has passed now, and you did not come, and that was as it should be. It was only a beginning, after all, the start of a lifelong journey. And we are together this day, you and I, as family. That is more than enough for me."
"Yes...well, I suppose that it is for us as well," she smiles and then embraces her daughter just as her father had done.
"Where are Rejia and Alric?" Elmariyë asks.
"Out behind the house," her mother replies, "practicing with the bow, I think. Though they may be building another fort among the rocks, as they are wont to do."
"Always behaving as the children they are," Elmariyë laughs.
"You know Rejia is fifteen now?" her father asks.
"I should know it, yes. She is ten years my junior," Elmariyë replies. "But it is hard to imagine until I see her face to face. She must be growing into a fine young woman now."
"That she is. Truly." Her mother absentmindedly unties her apron and hangs it on a peg on the wall.
"And Alric?"
"He too is growing, but is still very much a boy," her father replies.
"You know how it is, having you children so spaced out in years," her mother says. "Your elder siblings are so far beyond your age, that if your father and I had not the gift of extraordinary longevity, we would not have lived to see you three grow, nor for that matter, be conceived."
"They are not that much older than we," Elmariyë teases, with a smile.
"Yes, I suppose. But they are well into life now, with families of their own...those, that is, who survived beyond youth..." she adds, at the end, with downcast eyes.
The subject visibly pains Elmariyë's mother even now. Her parents had indeed lost two children, one at the age of two and another almost ten years of age. If the spirits of the dead still live in the realm of Midalest, then they are a large family indeed, eight children full, though only six visible to the eyes. Elmariyë indeed finds herself oft thinking of her lost siblings, one whom she had never met, being older than her and dying before she was born, and the other growing up right at her side, only a year younger than her, until she died tragically of illness in her ninth year. She talks to them at times from their dwelling place in the mysterious space to which the human heart goes after the gates of death open and close about it. Surely they must still survive in some fashion, though Elmariyë does not know in what manner this may be, nor do the teachings of Niraniel nor of any of the other gods seek to explain it beyond vague gestures and dim images.
Elmariyë's mother goes to the back door of the house and cries out in a bellowing voice, "In the name of the seven divines, get in here! Your older sister has come home."
"Mother," Elmariyë says quietly, as the woman turns back to her husband and daughter.
"Yes?"
"Please do not invoke the divinities lightly."
"Ah, yes, sorry... It is out of habit only."
With this she returns to the kitchen and begins to again clean the large pot which she soiled by dropping it on the floor.
"You know," her father says, "that there are some who say that the divines do not even exist. There is no force in the heavens, they claim, except what our own wishes and desires have placed there."
"Why do you say such things, father?" Elmariyë whispers. "Do you believe that yourself? If so, I would be glad to speak with you about it, to hear why you believe so."
"I did not say I thought so," he replies, "only that others have said so. Our neighbor, Olandis, for example."
"He is a cynical old man, Telran," her mother says, as she scrubs away at the edges of the pot.
"Did you know that he used to be a warrior in his younger days? He traveled across the continent and even spent some time in Væliria, in Vælaroma, the very seat of the Empire."
"Is that so?" she asks.
"Indeed," he affirms, matter-of-factly, as if only one response is appropriate to this statement.
His wife does not seem as impressed as her husband.
"Perhaps what we worship," he begins, starting up on the earlier train of thought, "are only the faces of our own desires, projected into the heavens. Or perhaps the divinities only live within us, expressions of the good qualities that we bear within, encouraging us to become better persons."
"I thought you said that you didn't believe," his wife sighs. "You were only saying that others said so."
"Indeed, indeed, Gjerinda," he mutters.
Elmariyë remains silent throughout this exchange.
"Anyway, Elmariyë," Telran says, trying to change the subject, "your old friend Bylja is engaged to be wed. Can you believe it? She and Afadir ended up getting betrothed after all. The wedding is not far away—I don't remember the date exactly—so perhaps you will be able to attend it while you are here."
"That would be wonderful," Elmariyë replies. "I would love to attend. And perhaps I can pay them a visit while I am here as well."
"How long shall you be here, after all?" her mother asks.
"It is not determined, exactly. A few months, perhaps, unless something calls me away. I expect to stay a long while, as long as I may."
"Splendid, splendid!" Telran exclaims, clapping his hands together. "Perhaps we can have the young couple over for dinner and can congratulate them properly."
"That would be fine, indeed," says Elmariyë. "But speaking of dinner, how has the harvest been?"
At this question, her parents' faces fall—though only for a moment, before they both hide it again.
"Enough to keep us going another year," her father replies tersely.
"Much less than we would hope," says her mother with more honesty and less reserve.
"Ah, I see," Elmariyë whispers, even as Telran looks at Gjerinda in discomfort, as if to correct her loose mouth which had spoken too much.
"Telran, what is there to hide?" she says, setting down the clean pot and lifting up another dish to wash. "Most of our crop did not survive, and we have been making do with the simplest and hardiest fare. And we even had to slaughter old Vakr. He was too ancient to be any good as a beast of burden anyway. Not the best meat—very tough—but it should last us a good many months."
"My dear..." Telran says, quietly.
"Oh, I am sorry," she replies, stepping forward and placing a hand on her husband's shoulder. "I should have been more sensitive. I know that it was a tough choice for you. You have ever been an animal-lover."
"One does not plow with an ox for over a decade without growing to love the animal," he says quietly, the sadness showing in his face. "But let it go. We have both now spoken too openly, and out of place. Our daughter is here, so rather than burdening her with our affairs, let us rather listen to her and all that she has to share!"
"Please, always speak openly with me," Elmariyë requests. "I am interested in everything that concerns you. It concerns me, too, after all, for I am your own flesh and blood. And even if it didn't concern me, I would still want to know."
After this, the back door bursts open and her two younger siblings stumble into the small house, covered in mud and yet smiling from ear to ear.
"Oh, what a mess," Gjerinda cries. "Out, out! Go clean up in the creek before you come in and track mud throughout the house."
Before turning to go, both of the young persons look at their big sister, smiling and laughing. She is impressed by how much they have grown, particularly her sister, and yet also by how radiantly playful they remain—just as she has always remembered them. It seems the tough times have not succeeded in dampening their spirits, and in this Elmariyë rejoices.
"Why don't you have yourself a seat?" Gjerinda says to Elmariyë when they have gone, gesturing to one of the chairs around the dining table.
Elmariyë nods silently and does as suggested, the deep feelings unique to homecoming washing over her. Telran sits next to her while Gjerinda continues washing the last of the dishes, and then she sits as well.
"So tell us," Gjerinda says at last, "of your life in Ristfand and of the celebration for which you have so long prepared."
† † †
The daylight is fast fading from the sky when the conversation at last draws to its conclusion—in sharing and listening from all parties in equal measure—and the family gathers for a meal before retiring for the night. Elmariyë, however, feels no need for sleep. Indeed, her heart is restless, stirred to deep longing at the memory of the past, at the stories of her family, and at the hope and expectation of the future. After pulling her cloak tight around her shoulders and holding it clasped at her breast with one hand, she steps outside into the night and walks away from the house and the barn until the starry firmament is visible unobstructed above her. The air is bitter cold, nipping at her nose and ears and lips, and cutting even through her layers of warm clothing, causing her body to shiver. Nonetheless there is no wind, and a deep stillness cradles the land and the air, and Elmariyë gratefully drinks it in, listening to the subtle nocturnal sounds: an owl somewhere nearby, in one of the few trees of the steppe or perhaps perched atop the gable of a roof; the stream softly trickling among rocks as it winds its way down towards the sea; and further off in the distance, perhaps even down in the plains, the howling of wolves.
She feels within her a stirring of anxious expectation, and she allows the feeling to linger. What is the substance of this anxiety, and what is she expecting? Of course, it is most likely nothing but the natural fear that one feels before an uncertain future. Her life is no longer in her hands, and though this thought awakens within her a deep security and peace it is also touched by a certain trepidation. It is also true that, however glad she is to be back home with her family, she feels less at home than she had expected she would. Part of this is clearly because she has found another home, the home of her mature choice rather than the cradle of her youth. But another part—she realizes now—is that she has never felt entirely at home even at home. As much as she loves the valley of Telonis and the families that live scattered among the fields and the farms, there has been a spark in her heart, a spark of restlessness, drawing her elsewhere. This is true even of the warmth of her parents, of the joy of being with her siblings, and the safety that is so unique to the bosom of one's origins, the family of one's birth, rarely to be found so deeply elsewhere. But she has found it elsewhere and in much greater measure. Indeed, the restless longing has led her beyond the security that her parents and her home provided, and returning to them now stirs in her a tension which she did not expect.
Elmariyë relaxes upon the touch of this longing, which is sweet, even as it is marked by a painful ache. As she walks under the canopy of stars, stars which she has seen and contemplated so many times, she also feels the stirring of memory returning for the many times throughout her youth when she would walk under these same stars, across these same fields, and be gripped by this same longing. And in this way, remembrance becomes in some way fully present, like a line is drawn from then to now, or like they intersect in a single experience made alive at two different moments of life, or two different moments tapping into a reality that is always present, deeper than feeling, in every moment even if only tapped into at certain times.
As Elmariyë reflects upon this feeling, she becomes aware of a trait of her life progressing unto this day, a trait which has gone almost entirely unnoticed by her until this moment: solitude. She has long been drawn to solitude, attracted to it. Yes, her life has been marked by it from the beginning, and after many years, she has befriended the solitude like an intimate companion. Even in her family life and in the daily affairs of the homestead, she lived as if alone, as if no one could see her, or rather she lived before the gaze of deeper eyes, eyes that looked upon her in her solitude, where she remained veiled from the eyes of flesh. Thinking upon this, Elmariyë recognizes that it is not the solitude itself that she has loved, but what lives in the solitude—those eyes that gaze upon her when she is alone, those eyes from which nothing can be hidden or concealed. Perhaps this exposure is unwelcome to others, and they flee from it—for do not many people flee from solitude in fear of its vulnerability and exposure? But for Elmariyë it is secure and safe, and thus deeply desired. When she is alone, she feels least alone, for here she feels most deeply seen and most intimately understood.
Yes, and this is what had led her to Ristfand, what had led her to her new home deeper than the home of her origin. For she recalls now a song she had learned in her youth, a song taught to her by an old woman who lived alone at the edge of the valley, in a cottage looking out over the plains as they extended far below into the distance. Elmariyë sings this song now, in a soft voice audible only to herself and to the solitude that envelops her:
She is the wind in the trees that whispers at night,
she is the sweetness of dewdrops, glistening and falling,
heard only by the heart that is still enough to listen,
and humble enough to welcome her gentle calling.
She is the warmth of the hearth burning while all sleep,
and she is the awakening of one in the night, sleepless;
she is the vigil of expectant longing that they keep,
heart alive in aloneness, yearning for the coming of togetherness.
For the coming of the dawn that dispels every night.