Tree Of Life Part 4

Soft light issued from lamps illuminated the woods like captured moonlight. Evenings were sacred to the elves, a time for reflection and connecting with one's higher self. No evening pa.s.sed without a graceful hymn that lingered on the breeze, soothing and uplifting. In the days the woods were filled with a strange radiance that filtered gold though the foliage.

There were rushing waterfalls of crystal purity, ferns laden with silver dew, elegant trees that seemed to drape and sweep down for the single purpose of caressing the earth. Fine dwellings were interwoven through nature with exquisite harmony. The structures were built around the existing landscape, embracing the trunks and branches of the elven-trees, but stabilised by significant stone pillars on the ground-causing no harm to the trees. Elves have an affinity with all living things, and a deep reverence for life.

Both men and women who dwelled here were equally matched in their clear, unchanging beauty. Their countenances were illumined with an inner light. Among them was eomus's sister, Ellendria, whose whiteness outshone them as the moon outshines the stars. She possessed the air of a celestial being, with grace and benevolence. Her grey eyes were profound in their depths and shone with the light of the everlasting.

Daenara strolled leisurely out onto the marble terrace overlooking a garden. The fair light of the sun graced her unbound hair which fell in waves over her bare shoulders. Although Daenara had aged twenty mortal years, she was still a beautiful woman, pale and delicate in health. Her melancholy spirit only enhanced her fragile loveliness.

The silver railing was smooth and cool under her hand, the air sweetly scented with flowers. Down below in the garden she could see Deacon conversing with an elfmaiden, into whose golden hair were woven white flowers. Standing together, among trees laden with white and pink blossoms, the two were as morning and night: she, bright and fair, and he, dark and still.

There was considerable conservatism in his manner and proud command in his bearing. Yet he seemed to grow mildly agitated as he conversed with the elfmaiden. She, however, remained patient and lofty. Her gentle gaze settled on the trees rather than on him. They stood near enough to one another that a pa.s.sing glance might perceive them lovers, but there was a division between them greater than that between their bodies.

Daenara withdrew inside. The room itself was splendid with a lofty elegance. She was preoccupied arranging flowers in a vase when Deacon unexpectedly joined her. His kiss brought a smile to her lips. "I see Mariwen has arrived home," she said.

He nodded. "Just this afternoon."

Daenara looked up over the flowers at her son. He stood leaning against the table, with a frown on his brow, as he brooded over thoughts of the elven-girl.

"I expected you might be spending the rest of the day with her?" Daenara mentioned this in pa.s.sing, but implications in her tone darkened his mood.

"No," he answered, idly. "These ones are beautiful," he said, reaching over the table and taking a rose from the arrangement; roses were his mother's favourites. Not being a flower person himself, he found they were the only ones he took pleasure in, perhaps because of her.

Daenara smiled as he looked absently at the flower, twisting the stem between his fingers. She knew where his thoughts lingered. "I do very much like her," she said.

Deacon glanced up at his mother, then turned his face aside. "She has treated me with nothing but cold vanity," he said. Always there was a controlled stillness in his voice. "She's not so different from the rest of them," he muttered, returning the rose.

He often spoke of elvenkind with an aversion Daenara could never understand. While she knew the elves had a very different manner of expressing themselves, she could not understand Deacon's estrangement from them, as he had spent most of his life among them.

Daenara was grateful for all the elves had done and could not share his dislike, but she no longer took it upon herself to correct him. She was weary, and the more she tried to defend them, the more his disaffection seemed to grow, but this newfound coolness toward Mariwen she wondered at; he had always had an affection for her. Daenara could almost guess why. Nevertheless, she did not question him and left him alone though it hurt to do so.

Deacon was tall and strikingly handsome, with coal-black hair and keen blue eyes. Taking himself over by the window, he gazed out with a discontented air. In spite of his guarded nature it was not difficult for Daenara to see that he suffered. There was frustration and pain and a desire to escape.

A restlessness had come upon him, a haunted sense of incompleteness. Always he had this feeling that he was missing something in the world outside. Time pa.s.sed here without account, as though he walked in a waking dream. At times he was overwhelmed by a feeling of being shut in by the trees, trapped in a world in which he felt he had no part. He had no outlet for his frustration and suffered the strain of withholding himself. To see his mother in a state of such fragility caused him to struggle with all his soul to spare her his burdens.

His eyes so dark and intent, Daenara could not help but be reminded of another. The concept of Deacon's future was so inseparable from the painful image of his father that she was afraid; she feared that the fate which took her husband would overtake her son. Grave premonitions haunted her, though her health did not permit her to see them clearly, leaving a vast and nameless fear for him.

"You become more like him each day," she observed, in a wistful tone of affection, along with the stronger undertone of fear.

Deacon looked round at her. "Let us not speak of him." He was trying for gentleness but was unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. The thought of his father roused his more violent emotions.

"I have dreams sometimes," Daenara said. "Dreams as I used to have of your father; only they are about you." She looked to him fretfully. "I fear I will lose you as I lost him."

A slight cough had him at her side instantly. "Mother, you are ill and not strong enough for this agitation," he said, leading her over to a chair.

"He was not always that way," she said, sitting down.

"The afternoon is fine," Deacon said, desiring to spare them both the unhappy direction in which the conversation was turning. "Would you like to walk a while? I will go with you if it pleases you."

"He was a good man once," she said.

"Do not speak of him. Rest. Please."

"Will you bring me some water?" asked Daenara, seeing him distressed, wanting to give him a task.

Though he had only vague remembrance of his father, Deacon had been sufficiently informed to loathe any talk of the man with whom he was far too closely a.s.sociated. eomus and Daenara had kept nothing from him, knowing that if they did not tell him, they must attempt to conceal it from him, which he would have no doubt perceived as betrayal.

Deacon fetched a gla.s.s of water for his mother. His hand touched hers as he steadied the gla.s.s and he thought how frail her hands suddenly appeared to him, yet they were as perfectly soft as he remembered them in his childhood. It distressed him that the veins were becoming more prominent; they seemed almost swollen beneath the translucent skin. She suffered still the poisonous effects of evil. The elves had sustained her all these years, but she had grown weaker each pa.s.sing one. At times she frightened Deacon, falling into terrible fevers from which she recovered more slowly each time. Watching her slowly wither made his chest ache with a persistent and constant pain. It hurt him to see her fade away, while the elves remained unchanging.

Sipping the water, Daenara spoke no more of her foreboding, but Deacon could see she was still afflicted with dark thoughts. Drawing a chair up very close to hers, he seated himself and took her hands firmly in his own. "I'll not make his mistakes," he said, determined, placing her hand to his lips. Her eyes that met his with appreciation looked tired but retained their strength.

Deacon arose the minute eomus made his presence known and gave him only a brief and cool acknowledgement. Deacon's thoughts about the elves were often inaccurate and unreasonable, but for all that, he at times touched onto the truth with painful accuracies. He thought them frozen in their perfection, and elves did, at times, act disdainfully towards the younger races. However, many elves themselves would be the first to admit they were not free from vices. They were aware that, while time brings forth understanding and wisdom, just because a being is old does not mean that he is wise.

He gave his mother's hand a parting pressure and took himself outside, taking a solitary walk as he often did. He felt insignificant here, his existence seeming to account for nothing. He was envious of the more finished race that surpa.s.sed him in speed and strength and longevity. It seemed a cruel trick in nature that not only had they more time, but they excelled at a quicker rate, far beyond what humans could hope to achieve. Unlimited desire but limited means seemed a permanent condition of humankind.

Rivens were a proud race, and this trait had found itself in Deacon. By sheer brute force he could bend magical energies to his will, but he had yet to learn how to focus his efforts so as not to expend unnecessary energy. He had often thrown himself into a fever, driving himself to the absolute limits of his endurance. His magical energies were interwoven with his lifeforce, and they were drawn on simultaneously. This was his unique source of strength. However, where an ordinary mage might only exhaust his magical resources, a Riven could deplete entirely his lifeforce and end his own life.

Finding a comfortable place alone in the woods, Deacon sat down against a tree. The wind was laden with fresh woodland scents and seemed to give reprieve from his thoughts. His attention was caught by an odd little bug that settled on the back of his hand. A faint, one-sided smile touched his lips. The bug had furry little feelers and feet that gave the appearance of boots. He watched with gentle fascination as it crawled along his finger, unaware of its observer. Suddenly it flew off but did not get very far. It had got itself tangled in an intricate net of silk thread.

Crouching down for closer observation, Deacon watched as the spider rapidly secured its prey. Seized in the sticky thread, the insect did not stand a chance against the swift-moving spider. Its legs all buckled up as the venom began to immobilize it, yet still it fought vigorously for its right to live.

Deacon would remove it from the web, but to save the life of the insect would be to take away the sustenance for the spider. With a dark expression of pity, he watched the insect struggle. He thought it a flawed system that life must take life to sustain itself. The ceaseless and monotonous buzzing drove him half-wild. With a flick, Deacon set aflame his own hand, meaning to put them both out of the misery of existence, when he saw not far off, Mariwen drifting through the trees.

Immediately he clenched his fist, snuffing out the flame. She had not yet perceived him there and strolled leisurely in the fair day, evidently with light and pleasant thoughts. Wearing a dress of the palest green she was a lovely vision to behold.

Chapter11.

Mariwen.

-eaconturned to make his way through the woods in the opposite direction, hoping that Mariwen would not see him. He felt too often with her the sting of disappointment. However, he had betrayed his presence by the slightest noise, and she called to him, asking if he would join her. The lilting musical voice cut through him like smooth gla.s.s, yet he found he could not deny her request.

Together they walked along an intimate path under an arch of trees. As Mariwen walked contently, Deacon steadily regarded her, his mood intense. He envied her sense of belonging. She was content and happy here. This was her home. Every aspect of the woods appeared to delight her, and he was jealous of everything that took her attention away from him. He desired that he should be the source of her pleasure.

"You look as though you belong to the wood," he said, bringing her attention to himself. Her solitary musing was a great bitterness to him.

"I do," she said smiling, "and I shall spend all my days here."

As she moved away to touch one of the trees, Deacon let his hand gently catch the skirt of her dress, letting the light folds slip though his fingers. He watched as she kindly fondled the draping foliage. In her every movement was beauty and subtlety. Despite his aversion to the elves, her loveliness was the one beauty to captivate him. She was not grave like the others but free and elusive as the wind. For many years he had known Mariwen but seldom did he see her. She dwelled often in the realm of her father's people. Her absences only increased his longing for her.

"We should seek often to be alone with nature," said Mariwen, resting her hand on the tree, "and she will whisper to us her secrets."

"She does not wish to speak to me nor share her secrets."

"You must be patient."

"To what end?" he asked, frustrated.

"She will in time," replied Mariwen, rejoining him. "But only so far as you are willing to listen."

The conversation threw him into a peculiar state of agitation, and they were quiet for some time. Quite absorbed in her he was not content to walk at her shoulder. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her. He did neither. Something in her manner was always capable of keeping him at a distance. Not once had he laid a hand on her. There was an ever present divide between them he could not close, though he desperately wanted to.

He marvelled, not without some bitterness, at the hardness of her heart, despite her fair and yielding form. Soon his gaze shifted from Mariwen-to look upon her gave him a longing in his heart that only caused him pain. She glanced over, and Deacon knew she saw the same dark, disappointed look she had often seen.

"Upon what thought does your mind linger?" she asked. "I see sadness in your eyes."

Deacon, conscious of growing pale, was annoyed at himself for revealing any sign of weakness. He glanced at her, then away from her questioning gaze. Finally he spoke brutally plainly. "I was thinking how much I want to leave here."

"Why is it that you wish to leave?"

"I cannot breathe here," he said with a look of ill-disguised aversion. "But I cannot abandon my mother."

"Her health fails her still?"

Deacon nodded once, leaving his head inclined, and compressing his lips painfully.

"Do not despair," she said sorrowfully. "Your mother is strong and here we have the best healers in all the world." After a moment of silence, Mariwen asked, "Is she content here? Your mother?"

"She is."

"Then why are you not?"

Deacon exhaled discontentedly before answering. "There is nothing here for me, beyond my mother. She alone keeps me from leaving."

The last he spoke almost insolently, searching Mariwen's face for any sign of hurt. There was none, and his face grew hard.

"There is nothing here for you?" she repeated plaintively.

"There is nothing," he said cruelly. She had caused him so much suffering it was easy for him to be cruel.

"Does she know this is your feeling?"

"I would not burden her," he said simply, but the cost of his effort in sparing his mother was plain on his face, and Mariwen felt a great affection for him in that moment. Gradually their walking slowed until they stopped entirely and stood facing one another under the mottled shade of the trees.

"What makes you so miserable here?" Mariwen asked. "What is it you seek?"

"I don't know," Deacon answered. Besides her, he didn't know what he was looking for. "Glory, honour, renown," he said, as though they were standard aspirations of men. "I want to be far from the wretchedness of common existence." The last he said with a kind of disgust, a fear and detestation of mediocrity.

"What is common about your existence?" she said with a smile.

He had no answer, and she could see how he suffered.

"My mind is restless, I hardly know for what," he said at last. "The days are pa.s.sing, and I have not yet fathomed for what purpose they are given to me. I have a longing, a craving, and I cannot tell for what. Do not tell me to listen for it in the rain or the whisper of the leaves." He was restless and intolerant.

"You must be patient. It is our greatest defence against sorrow and our greatest virtue," she said in a tone that irritated Deacon in his present mood. He wanted comfort, and she gave him counsel.

Mariwen was young, younger than he, but she thought him to have young eyes as yet and believed she should lead and correct him. Deacon thought it did not bother him, but deep below the surface he was nettled. He hated her way of patiently dealing with him and her lofty sense of superiority.

"And how do you suppose that?" he asked, trying to keep his temper. "I consider patience neither sustaining nor praiseworthy."

"Patience enables us to bear all things," said Mariwen, "and is the foundation for all the virtues. Therefore, it is the greatest. It is what my people have always endeavoured to maintain."

Deacon frowned. "It must be very easy to be patient when you are gifted with time," he said with a sharpness that silenced her. Mariwen lightly rested her open palm on his cheek, and he felt his chest expand with a rush of fresh air, filling his senses with the scent of the woods. Closing his eyes with relief, he hadn't realized how hard-clenched he was until softened under her tenderness.

"Do not give way to hopelessness," she said. "In time all things will come into our understanding."

In her expression was such sweetness, Deacon began to feel confident in her affection for him. Her fingers brushed over his cheek, light as a feather. The pleasure which her touch afforded was rarely felt by him. The very notion of holding her made his blood beat fiercely. It was so strong a desire he felt he would burst out in brutality, but he would rather go without her forever than do her any harm and knew a strong hand would only drive her further away from him. He would have to be patient and pin her delicate wings subtly with a gentle hand.

Chapter12.

Ailment.

-n a grove of immense trees Deacon stood, trying to quiet his mind. A stream of sunlight filtered brilliantly through the golden foliage. A carpet of leaves lay at his feet. Lightly, he laid his hand upon one of the thick, stately trunks, and with an audible sigh, waited; listening. There was nothing: no divine wisdom, no whisperings, nor any such revelation, only an intense silence that seemed to envelop him. Presently there was a slight stirring, a breezy whisper, imperceptibly soft, more of a sigh, lost almost amongst the rustling of the leaves. Always just a little out of articulative range, it was too elusive for him to grasp.

Standing alone Deacon felt that his presence was an intrusion and that Nature was withholding from him, denying him. The more he seemed to press her, the more she would turn from him. His presence was nothing to her. She was laughing at him.

Deacon took himself down to the part of the woods where the elves forged weapons. Thankfully, no one was there. When Deacon was not with his mother he often came here and laboured all through the day, crafting all manner of things. There were two reasons he worked so decidedly hard: one was to keep himself occupied and his mind free from painful reflections, and the other was to exhausted himself, so that he would sleep through the ghastly, deathful nights, when he was alone with only his thoughts.

With rapid expertise, Deacon turned and hammered the red-glowing metal. His hair, heavy with smoke and sweat, fell into eyes that were intent and concentrated. The sleeves rolled up above his elbows showed muscular forearms covered in a sheen of sweat. His hands, covered in smoke-smudge, were strong and fine, capable of works of great skill.

He had forged two fine swords for his cousins, Cedrik and his younger brother Derek, who was born much later. For their sister, Brielle, he had beautifully crafted a delicate bracelet from the finest of materials, though she was probably fit to wield a sword of her own. It had been several years since he last saw his cousins. His mother could not endure the journey even by portal, which Deacon had sometimes used to visit by himself when she was not well enough to accompany him, but it was a form of travel he rarely used. He despised being dependent on using eomus's magic.

Although his visits to the Imperial were few in number and short in duration, Deacon enjoyed every moment with his cousins. Many times he would resolve that this time he would not return to the elven realm, that he would stay with his cousins, seek his own fortune, and take the road he would choose. But then he would think of his mother and her ailing health, left behind to endure without him, and his resolve would fail him.

"Choose your mode of death," said a young, tall elf, with the steel of his blade held at the throat of Deacon. Deacon looked at Lufian with a blank fixed expression. He saw the shining mockery come over Lufian's face. "Do not become discouraged. You may yet find means to defeat me ...or has eomus's training been all for naught?"

Deacon watched him steadily. Then, with a slow motion, he willed a similar weapon to his hand. Lufian gleamed for a moment with pleasure, as if the gesture was made specially to please him. Then he a.s.sumed a ready pose. Though it was a pointless exercise, Deacon could never resist a challenge from Lufian, so the two men began to spar.

They were very dissimilar. Lufian was narrow, very thin and fine. Deacon was much heavier and more solid. He had a frictional, invincible kind of strength, whilst Lufian seemed to have a fluid, subtle energy, almost intangible, that worked against the other man with uncanny force, like a spell. He wielded the sword in a tense, fine grip, with quick, dazzling movements, and with such agility and dexterity it was difficult for Deacon to maintain a compet.i.tive pace.

With a swift, sudden motion, Lufian flung Deacon's weapon out of his grasp to the ground. Lufian had not broken a sweat, had not a hair out of place, and was clear and white, but Deacon was flushed red and tense. He seemed astonished. Lufian with the tip of his boot flicked the sword up into his hand and offered it back to Deacon. Deacon stood a moment, sorely affronted; then, with a sudden volcanic speed, he s.n.a.t.c.hed the sword and the contest resumed with greater intensity than before.

Lufian, with a lightning twist of the wrist, sent Deacon's weapon hurtling through the air. "Once again," gloated the elf, his point levelled at Deacon. Both glanced down at the weapon lying far from reach. Swifter than thought, Deacon brought it to his grasp with an outreached hand and threw his shoulder into Lufian's chest.

"It surprises me little that you should have to resort to magic!" snarled Lufian and again knocked it out of Deacon's hand. A slight fatigue showed at last on Lufian's clear brow. Deacon was much more exhausted. He could scarcely breathe any more. He s.n.a.t.c.hed up the hilt of his sword, then, without apology or word of any sort, strode away.

"It's only a game!" called Lufian. He gave the sword a flip in the air and re-caught the handle, a smile crossing his fine lips. In truth, he hardly liked the human, and the sport always gratified his pride.

The sun was beginning to fade, illuminating the woods with the golden hue an autumn sunset lends. Before returning home to his mother, Deacon scrubbed himself clean of the smoke-smudge and grime over his face and arms. Fresh and clean, the evening air cool on his skin, he dashed up the pearlescent stairs leading to the house held aloft by strong branches of the elven-trees. It was a magnificent home with many open rooms, allowing plenty of air and light. Deacon found his mother half-reclining on a long chair beneath a canopy; one look at her and instantly he knew something was wrong. She was listless and pallid in completion. Even the sight of her son failed to rouse her.