The Reverie of Aikanaro nu'Seludan

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The Reverie of Aikanaro nu'Seludan

On the hilltop, the elf rested. He sat on his own heels, knees together on the ground. His hands were open and relaxed upon his lap, one inside the other, with palms facing upward like a mendicant cupping alms. Back straight and shoulders apart, the elf allowed his body to remember the pose. As a child, the meditative stance had been a sort of torture, and no more than a few minutes had been required for the pain to seize his trembling legs and begin its gradual, burning spread up the muscles of his back. Decades upon decades of practice had long since made the pose second nature, however, and the elf’s body settled into the familiar ache as it would a favorite pair of shoes. Letting his gaze fix upon a point in the distance, the elf willed his body to relax. He turned his awareness to the muscles of his scalp, imagining there the warmth of the summer sun, thoroughly loosening and releasing any tension there before moving on to the muscles of his forehead. From there, the elf relaxed his brows and ears, then the tiny, squinting folds around his eyes, then the muscles of his cheeks and nose. Slowly, laboriously, the elf conducted the exercise, feeling the warmth spread through his frame as he focused his attention ever downward. The chin. The nape and sides of the neck. The base of the throat. The upper shoulders. The outer shoulders. As he relaxed his body, the elf felt himself slipping into the Reverie. His breathing deepened and slowed, carrying the warmth into his core. By the time the relaxation had passed through his knees and into his feet, the elf no longer recognized any ache from the pose. The deeper part of his mind let slip his frame to drift in the rhythmic, deliberate tide of the Reverie.

Eyes open, ears listening, the elf was still aware of his surroundings upon the hilltop, but as though from a distance. A fine, misting rain had begun to fall. The waking part of the elf’s mind saw everywhere the dim light of the crescent moon glancing from wet leaves and rocks, and the motes of water throughout his field of vision shone in the dark like stars with reflected moonlight. In his mind’s eye, the elf saw another night, another vast expanse of stars. Against the rain and cold a watch-fire was kindled in the far distance, registered by the keen sight of the elf, although from his vantage on the hill it looked little more than a flickering pinpoint of flame. Cast upon the Reverie, his mind’s eye roiling in the tide of years, the elf saw another night, witnessed the candle lit. The elf drifted still deeper. The candle that lit the dais, whereupon the crescent moon in beaten silver was hung. The dais in the amphitheater, open to the starry canopy of night.

And the elf began to remember . . .

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The walkway was artfully done. Great, spreading myrtles lined the path at regular intervals, branches entwining together to form a dense ceiling of violet crepe. Shaped by magic and time and the deliberate hands of those for whom patience is measured in the efforts of centuries, the living tunnel framed a path that ran perfectly straight but sloped almost imperceptibly upwards. Looking through the covered walkway toward the entrance to the amphitheater, the forced perspective beguiled the eye of the viewer, making difficult judgments of distance and depth. Beyond the canopy of trees could be seen the great dais, situated at the far edge of the clearing but commanding the full view through the tunnel even at this distance.

The elf stared down the vast length of the covered walkway, impatiently awaiting the summons. From his position, he could neither see the others assembled in the amphitheater nor hear their deliberations, yet he knew the speakers to be many and impassioned. The place of convocation could not be penetrated by scrying, of course, but the elf required no such eavesdropping to apprehend what was happening. The talk was of him, and would be for some time, though no divinations were needed to anticipate the outcome. The look upon the elf’s face soured, and he turned his gaze upward to the stars of the deepening night.

After several hours, the summons came. A brazier upon the dais was kindled, appearing from this distance little more than a bright candle flame. An involuntary wash of cold passed through the elf’s belly, and he became briefly annoyed at this demonstration of his own sudden anxiety. The elf entered the covered walkway, clicking his tongue in irritation. Bodily travel through space was such an inconvenience, such a frustrating waste of time, but the amphitheater was powerfully warded against dimensional folding and extra-planar movement. As ridiculously pedestrian as it seemed, he would have to walk the entire length of the path to the clearing.

That is, he would were it the case that he still walked, which the elf had not done for some few years now. The magical flight with which the elf had imbued himself had effectively become permanent by this time, requiring only a brief re-focusing of his attention once every two or three days to renew the effect. It is said that the most heavenly of celestials never deign to rest their feet upon the base and corrupt earth, reflected the elf with a wry smile, and neither now do I. Willing himself forward, the elf glided swiftly along the path toward his judgment. The only noise was the light rustle of the myrtles in the breeze of his passing, the only mark left was a settling fall of petals.