Late September, 5E985
[Two years, Six Months Past]
“Kel, Riatha, Dara!” called Jandrel. “Vi Didron ana al enistori!”
Riatha turned from the unshorn grain and shaded her eyes and looked at the three there at field’s edge: Jandrel ahorse with two Waerlinga mounted upon ponies at his side. She handed her scythe to one of the gleaners, and walked toward the visitors….
…the Lastborn Firstborns had come.
As the Elfess approached, the wee Waerlinga dismounted and led their ponies forward. Riatha’s heart welled up within her, for in spite of their dress and the weapons they bore, once again she saw before her what at first glance looked to be two children of Elvenkind. Yet it was not so, for no Elf had e’er conceived a child on Mithgar, and no Elfchild had set foot upon this world for more than five thousand years, not since the time of the Sundering. But even though her mind told her that these were not the children of Elves, her heart said otherwise, and she found unexpected tears running down her face.
As Riatha stepped to the edge of the field, the damman bobbed a slight curtsy and said, “I am Faeril Twiggins, and this is Gwylly Fenn. We are the last of the firstborn descendants of Tomlin and Petal….
“…And oh, Riatha, you are even more beautiful than I had imagined.”
And with that, Faeril dropped the reins of Blacktail and rushed forward, her arms outstretched, and smiling past tears, Riatha knelt down to embrace her.
* * *
Riatha led Gwylly and Faeril among the pine trees and past widely scattered thatch-roofed cottages, with walls made of woven withes and white clay and supported by wooden beams. “After we stable thy ponies, I shall find each of thee a dwelling—”
“Oh, no, Lady Riatha,” interjected Faeril. “I mean, well. Gwylly and I are now mated to one another, though we have not yet said our vows in public.”
Riatha smiled to herself. “Oh, I see. One cote, then, shall ye have.”
Onward they walked. Elves pausing to look at these Waerlinga—remembering. Suddenly Gwylly piped up: “Say, d’you think that we could say our vows here? I mean, d’you have a mayor or a kingsclerk or other such?”
Riatha smiled once again. “Nay, Gwylly, no mayor or kingsclerk, but ye shall have better. I shall arrange a pledge-giving ceremony.”
As they entered the stables, Gwylly looked up at the tall Elfess. “Pledge-giving ceremony?”
“Aye. ’Tis a thing we do when we wish to enter into a more lasting relationship. And a pledge-giving ceremony is a cause for celebration among Elvenkind, for it is not often that we commit unto an oath.”
“Not often?” asked the buccan.
“Thou must know, Gwylly, that each of us of Elvenkind is…very long lived…very—”
“Immortal,” supplied Faeril.
“…Aye. Immortal,” agreed Riatha.
The Elfess opened two stalls, and the ponies were led within. As Gwylly and Faeril removed their gear and saddles and bridles, Riatha put a scoop of oats into each feed bin and fetched water.
“What does a long life have to do with the giving of pledges?” asked Gwylly, rummaging through his saddlebags for his curry, comb.
Riatha set a bucket of water in Dapper’s stall and another in Blacktail’s. “Just this: Each person follows an individual path. At a given stage in life, a person may find his path running side by side with another’s. At a different stage, paths grow apart as the individuals change, as interests change, as common ground becomes less and less. Then other paths, new paths, may begin to parallel these new directions, as new common ground forms between different individuals.
“Friendship is an example of this: Friendships grow, become fast, then drift apart as interests change, while new friends are made. It does not mean that all friendships are fleeting, just as it does not mean that all friendships are lasting. Both fleeting or lasting: some are; some are not; most fall in between.
“Because individuals’ paths change, sometimes in unforeseen directions, one must take care when taking an oath or giving a pledge. For interests change. Common ground disappears.
“Elvenkind is most aware of such, for we live…forever. An oath taken today in pleasure may become an unbearable burden in the future—and heed, for Elves the future is forever. Hence, oaths, vows, and pledges given or received by Elves must take this into account.
“But even among mortalkind, within a mortal’s limited span of years, oaths taken and pledges made can in time become burdens too heavy to bear.”
Gwylly paused in his currying. “Surely, Riatha, you are not saying that it’s all right to break oaths.”
Riatha hefted first one saddle, then the other onto a low rail, draping blankets over as well. “Nay, Gwylly, I am not counselling oath breaking. Among all Folk, including Elvenkind, oaths are not to be taken lightly. I am, however counselling prudence. Think long, very long ere taking an oath, for the common ground where the pledge was made may one day become too small to stand upon.”
Blacktail placidly munched oats as Faeril lifted each of the pony’s hooves and examined them, scraping a blunt tool along the edge of the iron shoes to dislodge caked dirt. “Oh, I think I see, Riatha. Should the conditions for making the pledge change appreciably, well then, perhaps the pledge no longer applies.”
“Such as…?” asked Gwylly.
Faeril straightened, releasing the last of Blacktail’s hooves. “Well, such as making a pledge of fealty to someone, someone who later changes, becoming, say, unsavory in his deeds, perhaps even asking you to commit foul acts as well. In that case the person has changed and therefore the common ground has changed, perhaps has disappeared altogether, becoming something that no longer can support you in your pledge.”
Gwylly nodded, saying nothing, but Riatha spoke softly. “Aye, ’tis the common ground which supports all oaths. And conditions may change in ways unforeseen, enriching or depleting the soil nourishing a given vow. Hence, it behooves each of us to carefully examine the earth between ere planting a pledge therein.”
Finished with Dapper, Gwylly stepped forth from the stall, latching the gate behind. “You make it sound as if an oath is but a fragile seedling to be sewn only in fertile ground.”
“Aye, Gwylly, ’tis indeed that. And just as seedlings need tending and watering to survive and become strong and hear sweet fruit, vows, too, need cultivation and nourishment to keep them from withering.”
Faeril scooped up her saddlebags and bedroll. “That must be why some friendships die—they are not nourished.”
As Gwylly, too, took up his gear, Riatha smiled a sad smile down at the damman. “Aye, Faeril. Without nourishment all things wither—be they seedlings or vows or friendships or matings or aught else.”
Leaving the stables, once again they trod through the pine forest and past widely scattered thatched cottages nestled therein. Soon they emerged from the trees and into a tiny sunlit glade cupped on the edge of a slope, grass and wildflowers all about. And in the center of the glade stood another cote overlooking the vale to the east. Pines ran down to the banks of the Tumble and on up the slopes beyond, and the craggy bluff of the far wall of Arden Vale was visible in the distance a mile or more away. Riatha led the Waerlinga across the glade, while bees buzzed among the wild blossoms and gathered the last of summer’s bounty, sensing, perhaps, the onset of fall and the coming of winter beyond. The Elfess stepped to the stoop of the cottage. “This will be thy dwelling, though I deem that the furnishments within are not fitted to thy sizes.” Raising the latch, she opened the door.
Faeril and Gwylly stepped inside, and as Riatha went from window to window, opening shutters and letting the daylight shine in, the Warrows set down their belongings and looked about.
The cottage held two rooms: one a combination kitchen and living room, containing cupboards and tables and chairs and a fireplace for heating and cooking with two cushioned chairs for sitting before the fire, as well as a small pantry and cabinets, a washstand, a bench, and a writing desk; the other room held a bed and a wardrobe as well as a dresser and a chest of drawers, and two chairs for sitting, and a third chair before a small writing desk.
Gwylly looked out the back door, espying a nearby well while off in the distance to the side stood a privy. Just beyond the back stoop was a small plot of land for a vegetable patch, and garden tools were neatly arrayed on the rear cottage wall.
“Oh, Riatha, it’s a splendid cote,” breathed Faeril, “and we shall cherish our time here.”
* * *
After Riatha left them to settle in, saying that she would be back in the eventide to take them to a banquet, Gwylly and Faeril unpacked their meager belongings and explored the cottage and its surroundings. Gwylly was uncommonly somber, though, and as they sat among the flowers on the slope and gazed across the vale, Faeril at last asked him why the brooding brow.
“Just this, my dammia: I love you more than life itself yet I wonder if we have enough ‘common ground’ between us to support vows to one another.”
Faeril’s heart clenched. “What are you saying, Gwylly? What more do we need than love?”
Gwylly took Faeril’s hands in his and looked into her eyes, as if seeking something deep within their amber depths. “My dammia, I do not know if I am worthy of you.” He held up a hand, stilling the protest that sprang to her lips. “You can read; I cannot. You were raised among our Kind; I was not. You knew about the prophecy; I did not. You trained for this mission; I did not. You—”
Faeril laughed and took Gwylly’s face in her hands and silenced him with a kiss. “Oh, my love,” she said, “let us examine these things you cite:
“Indeed, I can read. And so will you within the year—”
“But I barely know my letters,” protested Gwylly.
“Faugh!” snorted Faeril. “Already you can write your name and mine, and spell perhaps a hundred words. No love, within the year you will be reading and writing in the Common tongue. And within two, you will be speaking, reading, and writing Twyll, the language of Warrows.”
Gwylly merely grunted, not convinced.
Faeril went on: “And as far as being raised among ‘our Kind,’ by the time you get to know the language of the Warrows, you will by then know much of Warrow lore, for I will use lore and legend with you to practice the speaking and writing of Twyll.
“As far as not knowing the prophecy, you will read all about it in the journals we brought.
“As to training for the mission, we have plenty of time to do so ere we set out.
“Too, by the time we finish this venture with Riatha, you and I will have more common ground between us than nearly anyone else I can think of.
“And as far as being worthy…oh, Gwylly, you are a kind and gentle soul with a heart as big as the world. Had your Warrow parents lived, they could not have raised a better buccan than did Orith and Nelda, Human though they were.
“Oh, my buccaran, don’t you see that the ground we have in common is as rich and as fertile as any could wish, and will only grow?”
Gwylly stood and pulled Faeril to her feet. He took her in his arms and gently kissed her. Together they walked through the wildflowers—bees rising up from the blossoms at the Warrows’ passage and then settling back to gather more nectar and pollen—the Wee Folk returning to the cottage and stepping within, closing the door behind.
* * *
Dressed in green silks and satins, jade ribbons wound among the pale golden tresses of her hair, Riatha came for Gwylly and Faeril as twilight settled upon the vale. The Waerlinga had donned their own finest clothes—the finest they had brought with them—and though the fabric was homespun and sturdy, still they were quite presentable: Faeril in black breeks and a grey jerkin, a black ribbon with long, loose ends dangling down tied ’round each arm high above the elbow, her black hair unbound; Gwylly in a rust-colored shirt and dark brown pants, and a narrow leather headband across his brow and tied behind; both wore dark brown boots of brushed leather.
Westward across the glade they walked, meadowlarks calling as evening fell. They stepped in among the shadowy pines, treading on a yielding carpet of fallen needles, the forest about them silent but for the soft susurration of slow-moving air in the crowns above, or the occasional scritching of a small animal scurrying away in the darkness. Too, in the tree branches now and then a bird would sound a gentle chirp, as if murmuring one last thing to itself while settling down to sleep. As they walked, Faeril and then Gwylly became aware of the faint echo of silver harps and voices singing in the twilit distance. A glimmer afar shone through the trees, and another, and more still, yellow and amber and soft. Closer the trio came and closer, stepping at last past a line of boles and into a small open glade. They came forth into amber light cast by candlelit paper lanterns hanging from limbs of the encircling trees, each lantern bearing an arcane sigil or rune, their colors various. As they entered the glade, the voices rose up joyously, and they found themselves among Elvenkind, dressed in silks and satins and leathers of varying hues—blacks and greys and whites, yellows and oranges and reds and browns, blues and greens and violets and lavenders—the Fair Folk gathered in celebration.
Elves smiled and gave way as Riatha led the twain across the greensward and unto glade center. Back and back moved the Fair Folk, yet singing, until they were ringed ’round, yielding a space so that all could see the visitors. Riatha took Faeril’s hand in her right and Gwylly’s in her left and slowly turned about, letting all view the Waerlinga. And as she turned, the singing slowly faded, subsiding until it was but a gentle murmur and then not at all. Harp strings rose and then fell in a last silvery glissando, the final notes drifting among the shadowed pines. Silence descended, and overhead stars emerged as the gloaming dimmed to darkness. Riatha faced north, a Waerling at each hand, and called out in words of liquid silver: “Alori e Darai, vi estare Faeril Twiggins e Gwylly Fenn,” and a shout of welcome rang through the woods as again Riatha turned the Waerlinga about so that all could once more see them.
Facing north again, Riatha led the Waerlinga toward the arc of the be-ringing Lian, toward the point where stood a tall, flaxen-haired Elf. To his left and right were planted standards, the flags hanging lax in the still night air. Even so, as they approached, the Warrows could see the design thereupon—green tree on field of grey—and knew at once that they beheld the sigil of Arden Vale, the Lone Eld Tree standing in twilight, a flag that had been borne with honor upon many a field in Wars cataclysmic.
Riatha came to a stop before the flaxen-haired Elf. “Alor Inarion, vi estare Faeril Twiggins e Gwylly Fenn, eio ypt faenier ala, Faeril en a Boskydelis e Gwylly en a Weiunwood. Eio ra e rintha anthi an e segein.”
The Elf smiled down at Faeril and Gwylly, and winked, and his words came softly: “I would be greatly surprised if ye spoke Sylva.”
Faeril, her eyes glittering in the lambent yellow glow of the lanterns, shook her head No, but added, “We could learn.”
The Elf laughed. “Dara Riatha—that is, Lady Riatha— has presented ye unto the Host of Arden Vale. Too, she has spoken thy names unto all gathered. She has also presented ye unto me. I am Alor Inarion, Lord Inarion, Warder of the Northern Regions of Rell.” The Elf Lord bowed.
Returning the courtesy, Faeril curtsied and Gwylly bowed. Then the buccan grinned up at Inarion. “Even though we don’t speak, uh, Sylva, I did hear my name called…Faeril’s too. But it seemed to me that Riatha said much more as well.”
Inarion’s eyes widened slightly at Gwylly’s canny observation. “Aye, she told that ye both came afar, Faeril from the Boskydelis and thou from the Weiunwood. Too, she named ye the Lastborn Firstborns of the prophecy.
“But we can speak of that later. For now, let us conclude these formalities and resume our celebration. Here, stand beside me and turn unto the gathering.”
With Faeril on his left and Gwylly on his right, Inarion called out unto the assembly: “Darai e Alori, vi estare Faeril Twiggins e Gwylly Fenn, vala an Dara Riatha e an doea Lian.”
Once again a shout rose up from the gathered Elves, and as it rang out through the shadowed pines, Inarion said, “I have named ye a third time, and told that ye are the companions of Lady Riatha and of all Lian.”
Even as Inarion spoke, silver harps began a soft melody, gradually intensifying as Elven voices slowly joined, singing in roundelay, harmonies rising upon harmonies. And the Alori and Darai began to drift across the greensward past one another in a shifting complex pattern, or perhaps in random movement, pacing and pausing, a given Elf or Elfess passing among other singers pacing and pausing too, voices blending and adding, singing point and counterpoint, all the while stately stepping, stepping, Riatha among these.
Neither Faeril nor Gwylly had ever heard such magical singing, and they looked at one another, quite over-whelmed by the concord. Too, they glanced up at Lord Inarion standing between. “We sing to the harvest and to the autumnal equinox,” said the Elf. “And to the rising Moon.”
Easterly, just now visible above the crowns of the trees, a full yellow Moon rode upward, its white-gold beams glimmering among the pines.
“Come,” said Inarion, taking a Waerling in each hand. Singing, he stepped the twain among Elvenkind, pacing slowly pacing, following a ritual reaching back through the ages. And down among the rustling silk and rippling satin and brushing leather, enveloped by melody and harmony and descant and counterpoint, trod the Warrows, their hearts full to bursting.
Step…pause…shift…pause…turn…pause. Slowly, slowly, move and pause. Voices rising. Voices falling. Liquid notes from silver strings. Harmony. Euphony. Pause…step…pause. Inarion turning. Waerlinga turning. Ladies passing. Lords pausing. Counterpoint. Descant Step…pause…step…
When the song at last came to an end, voices dwindling, strings diminishing, movement slowing, until all was silent and still, Gwylly and Faeril found themselves once again between the standards flanking Inarion, Riatha before them. The motif of the pattern they had paced was beyond the Warrows’ comprehension, but now at ritual’s end they knew, somehow, that the movement was not random but had some design, some purpose. They had been lost in the rite, for when it was over, the Moon was up full, having covered a quarter of the sky in its journey across during the dance.
Inarion smiled down at them and then looked out at the gathering. “Darai e Alori, ad sisal a ad tumla ni fansar isa nid Ses ti qala e med.” A joyous shout greeted this pronouncement, and as Elves began streaming out from the glen and westward, Riatha stepped forward. “Alor Inarion.”
Inarion moved from between the standards and took Dara Riatha’s arm, glancing back at the Waerlinga. “Come, my friends, the ritual is ended for this night, and food and drink await us.”
Gwylly offered his arm to Faeril, and as would two children pretend, they followed Inarion and Riatha, mirroring their every move.
As they strode southwesterly, they came among the Elven cotes, passing them by, heading for the central gathering hall in the distance ahead. But ere they reached it, a horn cry sounded from the nearby western canyon wall, and in the fulgent moonlight they could see a band of riders wending down a narrow pathway from a dark opening on the face of the bluff above. Again the horn sounded.
“’Tis Aravan and the others,” said Riatha, “returning from the hunt.”
Inarion barked, “Hai! They have a stag. It portends well for morrow night’s fest.”
Accompanied by Riatha and Gwylly and Faeril, Inarion turned from the gathering hall and strode to the stables. No sooner had they reached the mews than the line of Elven riders drew nigh, led by a tall, dark-haired Lian on a black horse. His dark leathers as well as his face were bespattered by mud. The black horse, too, was slathered with grime. Across the steed’s withers was an arrow-slain stag. “Hai, Fortune favored thee, Aravan,” called Inarion. Swinging down, Aravan gestured back in the direction of the following Lian. “Not only me, Alor, but She smiled down upon Alaria as well.”
An Elven rider with dark brown hair, her leathers and her mount also covered with muck now dried, rode to the byre. Another stag lay across the withers of her steed.
“Hai!” called Inarion. “Now we feast doubly!” Gwylly moved out from the shadows and into the moonlight, Faeril still clasping his arm. All the band paused, smiles playing across their features as they looked upon the Waerlinga. Aravan’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of the twain, and he glanced at Riatha, the Elfess nodding in answer to his unspoken question. And when the other riders had dismounted, Riatha called: “Alori, vi estare Faeril Twiggins e Gwylly Fenn. Eio ra e rintha anthi an e segein.”
Leading his horse, Aravan stepped forward and made a sweeping bow to the Waerlinga. “I hight Aravan.”
Gwylly bowed in return. “I hight Gwylly and this is Faeril.” The damman curtsied.
One by one the other mud-spattered Elves introduced themselves as they led their begrimed horses past the Waerlinga and into the byre.
* * *
The hall brimmed with light and color. Tables and benches were filled to capacity as the feast continued, Elves serving Elves, carrying platters laden with the bounty of the harvest as well as with baked fish and roast fowl and spitted game.
Faeril and Gwylly sat at a table with Inarion and Riatha During the feast Riatha’s silver-grey eyes ever and again strayed across the faces of the Waerlinga, her thoughts carrying her back a thousand years or so, recalling the images of Tomlin and Petal, and she was startled by the resemblance of Faeril and Gwylly to their ancestors of days long past: Faeril with black hair and amber eyes, just as Petal’s had been; Gwylly with red hair and emeraldine eyes, as had been Pebble’s, Tomlin’s. Even the shapes of their faces were nigh the same: Faeril’s oval; Gwylly’s squarish. Their slimness and quickness and deftness seemed identical to those Waerlinga of long ago as well. Riatha closed her eyes in memory, then again looked at the twain. Were I a Drimm, then would I think that Petal and Pebble were now reborn.
She was wrenched from these thoughts as Aravan and his hunting party joined the fest, having dressed the deer and cared for their horses and having made themselves presentable. The black-haired Lian sat beside her and soon was regaling the party with the tale of the hunt for stag in Drearwood: of the dash through a swampland; of the near miraculous casting of an arrow by Alaria at the very moment when it seemed as if the first stag would ne’er be brought to earth; of another wild dash through thick pines on the way home as a second stag jumped up before them; of being knocked from his saddle by a low branch at the very moment the stag doubled back; and of nearly being run down by the beast even as he loosed his own arrow point blank, the stag collapsing at his very feet.
“Hai, Aravan,” crowed Inarion, “indeed Dame Fortune rode before thee on this day.”
“Nay, Inarion, more like She clung to my leg, dragging alongside,” rejoined Aravan. Inarion burst out in laughter, as did they all.
* * *
The tables were cleared and once again music filled the air, Elf and Elfess alike taking turns with pipe and flute and drum and harp and lute and timbrel. And the singing, oh the singing, silver voices on the air as an Alor or a Dara or sometimes more than one would take up a melody. And there came a dance, with a male and female whirling and gyring, advancing and retreating, laughing and mock arguing, fleeing and chasing, catching and escaping, dancing far apart and independently, then sensuously together. At last the dance came to an end, amid applause and voiced approval.
Faeril was enthralled, Gwylly, too, for neither had ever seen such grace and beauty in a dance before. “’Tis the mating dance they did, for Seena and Tillaron are lovers,” explained Riatha.
Faeril sighed. “Well, though Gwylly and I have yet to say our vows in public, we are mates and lovers, yet never could we dance thus.”
Inarion turned to the Waerlinga. “So ye contemplate a pledging to one another?”
Gwylly looked up. “We would, can we find a kingsclerk or mayor or the like.”
Inarion laughed, and Riatha smiled as she spoke. “Did I not say that I would arrange a pledging for ye? Of kingsclerk or mayors we have none. Yet beside ye sits the Lord of all of Arden, as well as the Warder of the Northern Regions of Rell. And who better than Alor Inarion to lead ye through the ceremony?”
Faeril turned to Gwylly. “Oh yes, Gwylly. Who better?”
Gwylly merely shook his head.
The damman faced Riatha once again. “My Lady Riatha, we would be honored to have Lord Inarion conduct the ceremony.”
At the next lull in the entertainment, Inarion stood and called for quiet, and the hall fell to silence. He then turned to Riatha, and she stood, her green silks and satins bright in the lantern glow. “Alori e Darai, va da Waerlinga brea tae e evon a plith.”
A shout of approval rose up at the announcement.
Inarion stepped to a dais and held up his hands, again calling for quiet. Then he motioned for Aravan and Riatha to stand to either side facing him. Last, he called for the Waerlinga to step before him.
Gwylly turned to Faeril, seated beside him still. “My dammia, will you have me with all my faults?”
In response Faeril kissed him, then stood and pulled her buccaran to his feet. Taking him by the hand, she led him to stand between Riatha and Aravan, facing Alor Inarion.
Inarion looked down upon the two Wee Ones. “Ye have come before me to make a pledge of mating. I understand that among mortalkind mating pledges attempt to bind a pair until Death comes between. Yet heed, ‘Till Death do us part’ is not a term used in an Elven vow, for Death was ever meant to be a stranger unto Elvenkind.
“Too, we have become wiser in our long lives than to believe that things stay the same: change is a rule of existence.
“All things change with the passing of the seasons, though for some things the change is imperceptible, whereas for other things, change is swift, sometimes deadly. Individuals, too, change with the passing of seasons, and vows should not bind one in a relationship in which the common ground no longer exists, no matter the type of oath, be it for mating, fealty, vengeance, or aught else. For just as Death may part one from a vow, so too does the loss of common ground.
“This concept of common ground is no abstraction, for ’tis common ground which drives all relationships, be they simple acts of working with one another as well as working against one another…or be they more formal, such as lovers’ vows, or oaths of fealty, or compacts among friends or even vows concerning foe, vows of vengeance and retribution.
“Hence, common ground is the key to a relationship. And for a relationship to become strong, to remain strung both parties to an agreement must work more or less in equal measure in tending the common ground and nurturing the vows between. For when but one tends the ground and the other does not, the ground suffers, becomes less fertile, the things planted in common weaken, mayhap to wither altogether. After a span of this behavior, when but one nurtures and the other does not, a time will come when the ground will lie fallow, perhaps becoming barren, as those involved go their separate ways, or perhaps it will become ground supporting nought but bitter weed should they sow enmity thereupon. Too, there may be times when the ground disappears altogether, when individuals no longer have aught in common. And so, to keep the ground fertile and the vows planted therein robust, each must do a goodly part of the work to make it so.
“Even in the best relationships, there are ofttimes onerous or tedious duties involved, most recurring time and again. Heed me, on Mithgar various Folk have long-held beliefs that some things are females’ work, while other things are the males’ to do; these Folk usually separate all tasks along these lines, with a rigid boundary between. Those who well and truly consider this division of tasks eventually come to realize that there are but a very few things which fall only into one domain or into only the other—but this we can say: males seldom give birth to babies; females seldom are as strong as males; at times males are more fleet; at times females endure surpassingly; all else merely requires the skills or talents to perform the tasks. Hence, among Elvenkind, on Mithgar and upon Adonar, all duties are shared—except for those requiring strength or speed or endurance or other physical attributes beyond one’s capacity and those requiring the birthing of a child and its suckling, and those requiring skills not yet acquired or talents beyond reach. By sharing all else, we keep the common ground among us fertile and everlasting.
“Hence, to keep thine own relationship strong ye must share equally in the cultivation of the common ground and in the nurturing of the vows between; and ye must sort among all duties and participate willingly and fully in all which can be shared.”
Inarion knelt down and took each Waerling by a hand, his voice soft. “Do ye understand the meaning of that which I say?”
Both Gwylly and Faeril looked into one another’s eyes and then to Inarion. Yes, they said in unison.
“Then speak true: Do ye vow to one another to tend the common ground and to nurture the pledges given and received?”
“I do vow” they said in unison.
“Then speak true: Will ye plight thy troth to one another forsaking all who would come between?”
“I do vow.”
Inarion then placed Faeril’s hand in Gwylly’s and clasped their joined hands in his. “Then Gwylly Fenn, then Faeril Twiggins, each having spoken true, go forth from here together and share thy joys and thy burdens in equal measure until thine individual destinies determine otherwise.”
Inarion embraced each Waerling, first Faeril, then Gwylly, and then stood, calling out to all. “Alori e Darai, va da Waerlinga, Faeril Twiggins e Gwylly Fenn, avan taeya e evon a plith.” And a great shout went up from all.
Riatha and Aravan then turned and escorted Gwylly and Faeril through the gathering, harps and lutes and pipes and flutes and drums and timbrels began playing a merry tune and Elven voices were raised in song.
Out from the hail they went—Riatha and Aravan in the lead, Gwylly and Faeril directly behind, Inarion and all the others following—out into the moonlight and among the white cottages and into the woods, song filling the air. Easterly through the forest fared the procession, Riatha and Aravan drawing the Warrows after, with a long train of Elvenkind following behind. They came at last to the glade where was the cote of Gwylly and Faeril. Three times ’round the cottage they marched, or danced, circling deasil, the long promenade curling after, Elven voices lifted in joy. At last they stopped before the stoop, and Riatha and Aravan led the Waerlinga to the small porch, the dwelling glowing white in the platinum moonlight, the rest of the procession remaining in a ring encircling the cottage, the elegant hues of their silks and satins and leathers muted in the silvery beams. And all Elven voices were lifted in a final song whose melody filled the heart near to bursting. And when it was done, Riatha and Aravan each hugged the Waerlinga, then all the host quietly left, moving away to the notes of a silver harp drifting on the air, leaving the Wee Folk unto themselves.
* * *
The next evening came the second night of the celebration of the equinox, and the evening afterward held the third And on this final night Gwylly and Faeril found Riatha in a communal kitchen helping dozens of others prepare the meal. Aravan, too, was there, up to his elbows washing pots and pans.
“’Tis the sharing of duties,” responded Riatha to Gwylly’s question. “Three nights do we celebrate, each taking turn on one of those nights serving others.”
“Oh,” exclaimed Gwylly. “I understand. This way, all get to enjoy the singing and dancing.”
Riatha smiled. “Aye, for two nights of the three, ’tis so. But even more so, all get to share the joys of the labor.”
Faeril rolled up her sleeves. “Well then, Gwylly Fenn, it’s time we did our part.”
And so, that third evening of the equinox celebration, Elves were treated to the sight of two Waerlinga carrying platters of food and jugs of wine and ale and wela, a heady Elven mead. And later, the twain aided in clearing away the trenchers and platters and jugs and cups and flatware.
After the hall had emptied, Gwylly and Faeril and Riatha, as well as several others, worked at cleaning the tables and floors—Gwylly pushing a broom, Faeril and Riatha wiping down tables.
Faeril took advantage of this time to seek an answer to a puzzle. “Riatha, I was told by my dam that during the Winter War the Elves of Arden Vale were led by Lord Talarin and by Lady Rael, yet I find now that Lord Inarion is the leader.”
Riatha paused in her wiping. “Aye, my mother’s brother, Alor Talarin, was the Warder during the Winter War. And indeed Dara Rael was his Consort. Yet they have ridden the twilight and are again in Adonar.” The Elfess resumed cleaning.
“Talarin was your uncle?”
“Aye, though the Elven name for uncle is kelan.”
“Why did they go back to Adonar?”
A look of sadness came over Riatha’s features. “My sinja, my cousin, Vanidor, was slain at the Iron Tower in the early days of the Winter War. And near War’s end many Lian of Arden fell at the Battle of Kregyn, the place you call Grūwen, and their Death Redes were like unto a cold wind blowing through the souls of Elvenkind. Neither Talarin nor Rael ever recovered from the loss of one of their sons, nor from the loss of so many who fell at Kregyn. However, they did not take the twilight ride immediately, for they had pledged fealty unto the then High King, Galen. Yet when Galen died some forty or fifty years after War’s end. Talarin and Rael journeyed unto Darda Galion, and with Coron Eiron and a retinue of like-minded Lian, they rode the twilight. Ere setting out, however, Talarin asked Inarion to become the Warder of Arden Vale.”
Finishing the wiping down of the table, Faeril and Riatha moved to the next…. And then the one after…. And the next.
“He was named after our kelan.”
Faeril looked up at Riatha’s words. “Who?”
“My brother, Talar,” answered Riatha, her eyes grey and glistering with unshed tears. “Talar was named after Talarin—his kelan, my kelan, our uncle.”
Riatha brushed at her eyes with her sleeve, then looked with a clear gaze at the wee damman. “On the morrow we begin preparing. On the morrow.”
Faeril nodded, and together they moved to the next table.
* * *
That night, when buccan and damman fell into bed they were exhausted by worthy work. Gwylly turned to Faeril. “Truth be known, my sweet, these Elves have the right of it—sharing the burdens as well as the joys.”
“Mmmm,” responded Faeril from that state halfway ’tween wake and sleep.
Gwylly smiled at his love and brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. Rest well, my dammia, for as Aravan told me, on the morrow we start training in earnest for the mission ahead, for he intends to go with us. The buccan turned over and blew out the candle, then rolled back and snuggled spoonwise unto Faerii.
On the morrow we begin….