Elgalad was at peace, lying with his ear pressed to his beloved lord’s chest, listening to the strong heartbeat. In moments like these, after they had loved deeply, they would speak, softly; mostly of inconsequential things. Today Elgalad had a question. Long had he wondered about this thing, yet had never asked. His fingers drifted up to ghost over the skin of Vanimórë’s shoulder; lingering there.
“M-my lord? Hesitantly.
A smile could be heard in Vanimórë’s words as he answered. “Yes? What dost trouble thee, Meluion?”
Why dost thou not have markings upon thy chest; as are upon thy back and arms?”
For several moments, Vanimórë was silent; until Elgalad began to worry he had erred in asking. He started to rise from their bed, but Vanimórë’s strong but gentle arms held him close. One hand came up to stroke the flaxen hair.
“F-forgive me,” Elgalad whispered. “It is a personal thing. I m-meant not…”
“Shhhh, Meluion… I mind not. I was merely remembering.”
Elgalad settled contentedly once more, awaiting his lord’s answer.
***********************
Several months following the events he witnessed in the downfall of Thangorodrim, when his newfound freedom became something more than an impossible dream he hardly dared believe, Vanimórë spent the winter away from those he led; leaving them in a sheltered valley where game and water was plentiful.
Something seemed to call his attention again to the slopes of the mountains beyond the place where he had met the Druedain. He had wandered there for days, until one morning he arose from a small, sheltered cave he had happened upon. He had company; although how anyone could have approached without his being aware was great cause for concern. Especially in this instance, as his visitor appeared to be an ancient mortal.
This person sat upon a low, smooth boulder a short distance from the cave’s mouth; his back to the elf, unarmed and as comfortably unconcerned as if he were within his own dooryard. Perhaps he was. Vanimórë had no way of knowing whether the cave he had used had already been claimed, but he had seen no evidence one way or the other.
At the moment, the ancient one’s gaze seemed fixed upon the far horizon, his lips curved in the ghost of a smile. He was clad in a robe of rough-spun wool; simply belted, his feet bare.
Though wizened, he gave off an aura of surprising strength.
Still, Vanimórë had no intention of deliberately crossing paths with the strange being. Silently, he circled downhill and away, keeping cover between himself and the interloper. He chose a spot a considerable distance away before settling down to watch.
But it seemed there was nothing to see. The unknown person merely sat upon the stone, unmoving as the day passed. From time to time, Vanimórë could hear him chanting or singing, but this was done in a language unfamiliar to any he had heard before. The waiting became something of a contest in Vanimórë’s mind; to see which one of them would move first.
The day became night, and still the strange creature had not changed position. As the night wore on, and in spite of himself, Vanimórë became engrossed with the other’s presence. He decided to observe a while longer rather than moving on; and thus he waited through the following sunrise. This day passed in the same manner.
Another sunset was approaching; he consigned himself to another night of silent observation.
Thus he was startled when the being’s head subtly turned in his direction and their eyes locked, even though a considerable distance separated them. It was then he heard the voice in his mind; but the greatest shock came from its surprising gentleness.
“Thy patience is commendable; young one,” came the soft greeting. “Wilt thou join me?”
Though wary from long necessity, he did not sense any deception in the old one. His encounter with the Druedan sprang immediately to mind, and was intrigued in spite of himself. To be addressed as he had been amused him further. Cautiously, he worked his way uphill to where the old one waited; alert for any change in his demeanor. He paused a reasonable distance away, but allowed himself to be observed even as he scrutinized the other in return.
The old one spoke in the same soft voice Vanimórë had heard in his thoughts shortly before. “Ah…thou art not as young as thou dost appear. Forgive me.”
“It is of no matter,” Vanimórë replied equably.
The silence stretched, almost as a challenge to who would break it.
Then the old one smiled, as if Vanimórë had passed a test. What he said next, however, came as more of a command than a request.
“What is thy name?”
Vanimórë immediately tensed, wary. But then he realized that the question had not been asked in the same manner as ever before. This being seemed genuinely interested. Still, he hesitated.
“I am…Nothing. No One.”
“Now, child…everyone is Someone, no matter their beginnings.” The old one fixed him with a level gaze, but what Vanimórë saw there was something he had never encountered. Not contempt. Nor was it derision. Instead it was something new, something that spoke to him deep within. What he saw was compassion…and he found himself unable to reply.
This, too, the strange being seemed to understand. “Wilt thou sit with me awhile?” he continued, and to his surprise, Vanimórë complied. They sat upon the stone in a more companionable silence then, watching as the sun set and the first stars appeared. The old one seemed to enjoy the sight as much as Vanimórë, and their unusual communion continued with the old one offering comments about the beauty spread above them. Vanimórë offered no reply, but instead listened raptly, soaking up everything the old one told him, content merely to listen.
After awhile, Vanimórë found himself willing to voice his curiosity.
“Dost thou live here?” he asked.
“I do not…though this is my favorite place to seek the One.”
“And didst thou find Him? Vanimórë asked, both amused and intrigued.
“Oh yes. Many times.” A smile could be heard in his words.
Vanimórë fell silent once more, pondering upon what the old one had said. Was such a thing possible? Was he truly of worth, as the old one had hinted? He seemed so sure of what he had said…Vanimórë knew his mother’s people held a hope of Something…something beyond the horror of what their lives became at Morgoth’s hands. He looked again to the night sky. He could not be certain if it was only his imagination, or if a certain pattern of stars was truly brighter than the rest. He could not have explained if asked, but those stars touched something within him. A place of hope, but also of sorrow.
He was brought back from his musing by the old one’s voice.
“They speak to thee.”
Vanimórë merely nodded in the darkness, not trusting his voice.
“Dost thy people have a name for them?” the old one asked.
Surprised, Vanimórë wondered how the other had known what he was seeing.
“Wilwarin…it is said the Lady of Stars created it when my people first awoke at Cuivienen,” he replied softly. “It is said to be a symbol of hope.”
“Then thy Seeking has already begun” came the reply, certainty ringing within the statement.
Vanimórë’s full attention jerked to the other.
“What meanest thou?”
“Only this. Thou may not have come here expecting answers, yet they await thee the all the same. Wilt thou hear them?” A challenge was implied in the words.
Vanimórë was speechless…yet he found his elven heritage awakening within him, demanding to be heard.
“What must I do?” he asked.
“Lay thy weapons aside. They shall be safe in my keeping. Thou may or may not keep thy clothing, as thou choose. Those who truly seek come before the One in the same manner as they were made. Beyond this, only be willing to see…and to listen.”
Vanimórë hesitated. To be without weapons or clothing was to be vulnerable, and yet…something told him if he passed this opportunity, it might never come again. He made his choice. Soon, he was unarmed and bare, his magnificent hair his only covering, sitting once more upon the stone. The other had risen and carried his belongings a short distance away. Picking up a walking stick that had been lying at his feet, he used it to mark the mirror of the constellation above in the soil surrounding the stone where Vanimórë sat. Then he reached his arms heavenward, beginning to sing once more. His sleeves fell away, and Vanimórë could see strange makings that appeared to be painted upon his skin, seemingly decorative in nature. He determined to ask the old one their significance when he completed his ritual.
When the other had come to the end of his song, he turned to Vanimórë and replied as if he had spoken aloud.
“Thou mayest ask me later. If thou wilt seek, I caution thee to remain within the markings I have placed about thee. Only here wilt thou be safe.”
In spite of himself, Vanimórë shuddered, recognizing the ring of truth in the old one’s words. Almost, he protested. If what he suspected were true, who, then, would protect the other?
“Worry thou not…Iam not the one who shall be in danger. Remember…thou must stay where thou art until thy seeking is done.”
“And when shalt I be finished?” Vanimórë asked, refusing to acknowledge the frisson of fear within himself. Ruthlessly, he crushed it down.
“Thou wilt know, child.” With this, he turned away; walking slowly to the cave Vanimórë had occupied. A short while later, he heard the other singing once more, and he found the sound oddly comforting. He sighed, looking to his chosen pattern of stars; resigning himself to wait for whatever happened next.
He stared upward a long time, feeling almost as if he were in the grip of some strange vertigo; for it seemed he was looking downward instead, into a great pool of infinity and the stars were merely ornaments floating upon its surface. He never noticed the markings the old one had made in the earth around him glowing softly in the darkness; it was as if he were already far away. There was a music…seemingly generated by the stars themselves, though it also came from someplace beyond them.
He thought at some point he must have drifted into reverie, but afterward could never be certain if this had indeed been the case.
He could give no name to what he saw; yet there were beloved faces there…his mother..and another beside her; a face very much the image of his own. He knew them, but how he knew he could not have said. Could this be? He knew the face for that of his mother’s mate…but he was not born of this person...why would there be a resemblance? His sister…though her image was ethereal; as if she were not wholly present. He wondered at this, but the images were gone before his mind could truly grasp them.
Many other things he saw, knowing in some way they were visions of the future. The horror of it made him wish to turn away, but it was as if his gaze were held by some unknowable compulsion.
See…
…and somewhere within that maelstrom of evil the seed planted within him awoke; rising up to meet the evil, neither asking nor receiving quarter.
Many were the battles he fought…until he had given all; and in the end could only rest within a promise given him in words that were not voiced aloud, yet anchored within his soul.
All was not sorrow, nor evil…there were times of freedom as well, and many the lands that passed before him. There were other faces as well…one glowing golden, fierce in strength and beauty. Mighty was the power reflected there, and Vanimórë felt drawn to him in a way he could not describe. Two more there were, framed in fire; though they held not the power of the first, each was formidable. Beyond them, burning in the darkness, was another pattern of stars. He should know them, yet his mind was detached; as if their time had not yet come.
Vanimórë watched until these images melted away as had those before. He came to the edge of despair in that great darkness, but then he heard the music once more…a song just on the edge of his hearing. Though he listened with all his being, a part of it remained beyond his reach.
And yet…a face formed within that darkness; a face of such beauty he wept at the sight of it, though he gave no thought to the tears he shed. The exquisite face was haloed by hair of silver gilt; and the soft eyes looked upon him with a purity and intensity of love such as he had never known; a promise made to the yearning within Vanimórë’s soul. Before he realized, he stretched forth his hand to the being, who reached for him in return; his expression one of blinding joy. Their hands met…
…and held.
Both the darkness and the stars he had seen burned away…
But they remained.
********************
Vanimórë awoke to the sound of birds. He was curled upon the smooth stone as if a child, and felt he had slept in a peace he had never before experienced. The sun was rising; and the old one stood once more before him, holding a water skin. Gratefully, he accepted it.
“Thou hast been long upon thy path,” the other observed.
He was somewhat skeptical of this statement; for him, the night had passed quickly.
“Time passes differently where thou hast traveled,” the old one replied; as if he had spoken aloud. “Thou hast been away for three days and nights.”
Vanimórë’s shock must have shown upon his face, for the old one nodded solemnly before coming to sit beside him.
“What thou hast seen is for thyself alone. Thou may speak of it or not, as thou wishest.
I did promise thee I would answer thy question when thou awoke. Now is that time.”
He pushed up his sleeve, baring the marks Vanimórë had seen earlier.
Thou may touch them if thou wishest,” he offered.
Vanimórë extended a tentative finger, rubbing lightly across the dark designs. What he has assumed was paint appeared to be instead a permanent part of the other’s skin.
“They are marks of remembrance,” the old one said. They are made by placing ink beneath the skin with special tools. Only one who has sought his vision may wear such as these, yet there are those who wear similar markings for other reasons. “This one,” he indicated a particular design, “was the first. It represents my own travels upon the path of the One.”
“I am not of your people...”
“And yet thou desirest such markings? I expected thou wouldst. Thou hast earned them.” Something in his knowing gaze made Vanimórë wonder if he had somehow seen what had happened to him…and he would not have been truly surprised if he had.
They talked through the day as the old one inked Vanimórë’s skin in the designs he had chosen. Across his back, stylized in the manner of the old one’s own, spread Wilwarin. Along his arms curled designs representing those he had loved and lost; within them the promise he had been given to someday find the ones he had seen in his visions.
His chest received none at all; for this was where the other he had seen would rest; and he wanted nothing between his heart and that of his beloved.
They spent the night in the cave, breaking their fast with some of the dried traveling food Vanimórë had carried with him. They spoke long into the darkness, and Vanimórë learned many things that served him well ever afterward. In the morning, the old one had gone; leaving no trace of his passing. What he had experienced seemed vague now, something he could almost remember; yet it had left a sense of hope and purpose behind.
He frowned. For elves, the clarity of memory was both blessing and curse. Still, he was not truly surprised, given the surrealistic nature of the entire encounter. He studied his arms. If he doubted, the markings upon his skin were proof that it had indeed not been merely a dream.
Vanimórë gathered his weapons. Stepping outside the cave, he took a moment to admire the beauty of the coming day before walking back down the mountain in the light of the rising sun.
**End**
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