Shadow of the West

[Amanaduial the archer]

While the dark clouds of the forming of new alliances moved through the palace, all remained still and peaceful in the ancient Temple of Rhais. Despite Morgôs' pretty blatant rudeness to her, she remained her usual unruffled self, and she put aside her natural curiosity as to why exactly the elf was actually in the temple: even mortals, despite the hustle bustle which they seemed to rely on in a city to survive, needed peace to pray once every so often. Maybe the elves did as well: just because Morgôs had fought so effectively and for so long in battles for Pashtia's good, this did not mean he did not have to fight his own demons, she supposed, just like everyone else...

The elf fights a battle... The words jolted Zamara. They reminded her suddenly of something that she had not conciously thought of for some time, yet which had been in her mind for the past month, on and off. She glanced anxiously across at Morgôs where he had taken up a position in front of Rhais, then looked away hurriedly, back at Siamak. The prince was also watching the elf, but with a deep, thoughtful look in his young eyes.

"Everyone needs time to pray, in peace and on their own," she said softly to him, bringing his attention back to her.

Siamak nodded slowly. "And everyone may have their own concerns about those prayers," he replied enigmatically. The Priestess looked at him hard for a second, wondering what, if any, the alterior meaning of that comment was. Then she shook her head, blinking a few times. "My apologies, Prince Siamak, I have had many thoughts and several unexpected visitors now today-"

"How so?" Siamak's reply was whiplash quick. Zamara grinned inwardly at the speed with which he had picked up on the comment as being possibly significant. The quiet, shy prince was apparently becoming more politically minded. "Yourself, if you don't mind my saying so; General Morgôs, of course, who I think I may have seen maybe once in the Temple before; and earlier, your sister, Princess Gjeelea, came to see me. She was asking about pretty much the same things as you," she continued smoothly, anticipating Siamak's next question as he tensed. "Tell me, Prince Siamak: with the current situation, is there still..." she stopped, and mentally rephrased her question so that it would appear less blatant or rude. "Have you and the Princess reached an accord on the matter of the Emissary?"

Siamak remained silent, and his brown eyes flickered away from Zamara's after a second, reaching up to see Rhais'. Zamara nodded ruefully. "My...my apologies, your majesty, I did not mean to pry. I simply wondered, as your sister came in here earlier asking me also about the goddess and her devices..."

"What did you tell her?" he asked softly.

Zamara hesitated, remembering Gjeelea's strange words, and decided not to mention to her brother everything that the Princess had said. Her views on Gjeelea were changing, despite the childish facade that she had attempted to fool the priestess with: she was a most exceptional individual indeed. The High Priestess fixed Siamak with her steady gaze so that he, like his sister, was forced to meet her strangely blueish eyes. She saw his brow crease slightly but spoke before he said anything. "Prince Siamak, I have spoken to the goddess on this matter, as I am sure the priests have consulted Rae about it. I...I am not sure, on this topic, what..." she trailed off, apparently distressed, and looked away. She had almost revealed a great fear to the Prince, a fear that could never be voiced. Taking a deep breath, she continued. "You must pray to the goddess and ask for her guidance yourself, Prince Siamak, if you want my advice. You have never, it seems, taken a side between one deity or the other, and as the people seem more and more to turn away from Rhais, I do not think this will be missed. She will watch for you, if you will watch for her, Prince Siamak."

The Prince looked like he was about to say something more, before he pressed his lips together and nodded curtly. "Thank you, High Priestess Zamara." He nodded again politely, and began to turn away. Zamara leant forward quickly and laid a hand on his arm, her dark fingers brushing the rich fabric of his sleeve lightly. Siamak paused and turned back to her, by his expression probably guessing at some blessing. But Zamara's gaze was somewhat more intimate than that. She leant forward so that her loose, wavy hair was almost touching his face as she murmured into his ear, her voice seeming strangely breathy, as if it was not quite her own. "Times are changing, Siamak. The time of Rae is coming, but those faithful to Rhais... the Priestess will pray for you, be sure of it. Peace be with you: watch out for those who would value the power of steel over the peace of the earth."

Zamara leant away, and something about her seemed to relax. Siamak hesitated for a second, confused, then, nodding quickly, he turned away and left the temple. Zamara blinked a few times and rubbed her forehead, trying to regain her train of thought. She hoped she had left Siamak with something to think about, but rather thought that she hadn't been much advice at all...

Hearing a movement behind her, the Priestess saw Morgos standing, also watching Siamak leave, and he began to follow, but Zamara stopped him, moving towards him swiftly, her white robes gently brushing the stone floor and her sandals silent. "General Morgos, please, would I be able to talk to you for a moment?"

Morgos almost seemed to sag, his expression weary as he reluctantly tore his eyes from the retreating prince's back to look at Zamara, even as he took a step of his own towards the exit. "Priestess, I have many things to attend to and-"

"It is about the elves, General."

Zamara did not know what urgency compelled her, or why she felt such a strong need to find out about this, but the thoughts that had been brewing in her mind needed clarification, and Morgos could help her more than any, she was willing to bet. Her heart was thumping in her chest as the elf froze mid-step and turned towards her quickly. "The elves? What about the elves, which? What do you know about them, Priestess, why is it that you bring them up?" Morgos's eyes were strangely bright.

Zamara cocked her head on one side thoughtfully, resisting the urge to back away as the elf took a step towards her so he was dangerously close, and she noticed out of the corner of her gaze that his fists were tightly clenched. She also noted how thin and pale he suddenly seemed to her. Hesitating, she murmured a few words then turned and mounted the steps to the statue of Rhais and spoke softly to Tayfar where she was trimming the lamps around Rhais' feet. The girl nodded respectfully at Zamara's request, and scurried away to do as the High Priestess had requested. Turning back to Morgos, Zamara descended the steps swiftly and slipped her hand through the elf's arm to lead him behind the statue to the courtyard where she had often spoken with his wife before. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she began. "Morgos...may I ask you what you know of the elves' arrival in Pashtia?"

[Imladris]

Arshalous stared at the king, rigid with shock, seething with horror as she realized what the king might ask her to do, loathing at the unpleasant prospects, and fear of the dark doom that had fallen into the room, of the taste of...sneaking and plottings that filled her mouth. Lightening flickered across the tapestried walls, thunder clashed, and a dark presense pressed heavily upon her. The king looked intensely at her and he clutched at something against his chest.

Rising to her feet, Arshalous stood and faced the wall. "This powerful lady," she said softly, "was shocked when she heard the king's story. Though she held no love for her cousin and wished to see him fall, she feared what the king might ask of her. She knew that dark things were being whispered, plots that might very well end up unhappily, leaving nothing but regret and sorrow in its wake."

Slowly she turned, staring into the king's eyes. "The king was right when he said that the lady had no where to turn. The lady could feel the walls of a prison enclosing her, could feel the shackles clanging shut. She knew it would not be wise to refuse her king, and besides, the thought of bringing her cousin down into the dust was like sweet wine laced with poison. Trapped between desire and fear, she knew that there was but one answer she could make. She told the king that she would help him when the time came. And that, my lord, is all that I know of this story of love and betrayal."

[Orofaniel]

Someone entered the door. Evrathol heard the voice of their servant Kashana, and another voice he did not recognize. Who could it be visiting them at this hour? Usually, their visitors came for one reason; to meet the General. Now as Morgos wasn't here… Someone close to Arlomë perhaps? Or maybe a someone waiting for him? He doubted the last option. But at the same time, he thought of Perkan. There hadn’t been much time for friendly conversations concerning politics or other matters lately. Evrathol smiled.

He eyes Kashana in the hallway. "Who was at the door, Kashana?" Evrathol requested. "The E-emissary, sir," Kashana replied quickly. Evrathol's eyes blazed. What was he doing here, was the only thought that struck him. His eyebrow raised as if suspicious. "Really...?" He muttered. "And did you tell him that the General is not here?" Evrathol continued. "Yes, yes, I did," the servant said. "And..?" Evrathol then said. Kashana felt a bit uncomfortable as the questions continued. "Well, the Emissary is here for another cause, sir. He wanted to speak with your mother. I invited him in and Arlome should be with him any moment now," Kashana then explained. Evarthol was confused by these words. What would the Emissary want with his mother? What could it possibly be? Evrathol stood there in his own thoughts, while Kashana looked at him not knowing what else to say; "I'm sorry, I'm still not finished cleaning, so if you'll excuse me."

"Oh, I apologise. It wasn't my intention to stall you. Please go back to your work," Evrathol said smiling weakly. The servant nodded and did a humble courtesy before leaving.

[Kransha]

Morgôs was visibly jolted by the High Priestess’ inquiry. This marked the third time this month that someone had asked him a particularly out-of-the-ordinary question; first Siamak about the Old Gods, his wife about his books, and now Zamara. Zamara, though, sounded as if here question would be doggedly asked, even if it was only an offhand query (Morgôs had guessed that that was the sort of person she was) and was asked with hidden intentions in mind. His look of strange obsession turned to mired adulation, Morgôs spoke, asking: “You mean their first coming to Pashtia, yes?” The phrasing had confused him as well. “Yes.” She calmly replied. Walking cautiously through the courtyard, he answered, stammering a bit.

“This is not an easy question to answer.” Zamara looked at him patiently as he stopped walking. “I have the time to hear it.”

Morgôs, sighing in defeat, was about to begin, when his tuft of an eyebrow rose delicately, as if he had had a very minor epiphany. “Did the Prince put you up to this?” Zamara shot him a strange look and shook her head. “No. Whatever do you mean?” Morgôs took a healthy, deep breath, saying, “Nothing, I suppose. Very well, I shall tell you what little I know. It has been a very long story since I have told my version of the story to anyone, especially a mortal.” He stood now, stock still, peering down at the pristine ground, and readied himself for brief oratory. Like the finest of speechmakers, he began.”

“The truth is, I may well have been there when it happened, but after a thousand years, one’s memory becomes hazy. I do remember a great many events that occurred during that time, but exact memories have all been blurred by time. It was the Elves who found mortal men beneath the pale slopes of the Red Mountains. They were most curious at the time, not as civilized as one might think. They had built many villages, and some towns, but were otherwise primitive. The Elves, my kindred, were at that time nomadic, and let themselves be allowed into sedentary mortal society, becoming part of the sovereign nation of Pashtia, just named and founded by a chieftain, who proclaimed himself a lord of men. Many tribes refused the rulership of the chieftain, but my kin accepted it and advised the King for years, becoming part of the society that swelled about them. They were revered by some, but hated by others, and, though the chieftain thought highly of them, or should I say, us, others whom he gave power did not. When the chieftain died, without leaving an heir, a dissolute one took his place and...” he trailed off dolefully, turning his eyes down again, “Well, you know the rest.”

“Yes,” Zamara replied with a cool demeanor, even though she knew how touchy a subject this might be for such an ancient Elf, “the Elves were enslaved.” Morgôs nodded, his features frozen stiff, “That is all in Pashtian history books, as are the annals of Pashtia’s chaotic origins. Why have you asked these questions? I am sure that you, in your wisdom, could have uncovered the answers without my help.” Again, Zamara replied with an air half-aloof, as if she was detached from his words, but still curious.

“Yes, I could have. But, General, could you tell me more?”

Morgôs spoke coldly. “What more do you need?” Zamara’s detachment ended instantly as she persaistently maneuvered. “Just more.” She said, emphasizing the word, “You say you were there, you must no more than just those bland facts. Many things about Pashtia’s history have been lost, but you stand before me, a living witness to events which most men have forgotten. This is information of great value, which has probably not remained intact over the hundreds of years. All I ask is that you shed some light on the matter. Surely-”

The Elven General cut her off suddenly, his face losing a shade of color as he did so.

“Fine, if you must know.” He seemed unable to ready for the speech, and was launched into it before he could stop himself. He felt his mouth moving, a words issuing from it, but he did not have time to consider them before they came out. “We were roaming the land, homeless and without food or shelter. Our kin, wise and strong, had gone from us to their doom, tantalized into leaving by a creature of which we no longer speak, who took them to the west. After that day, terrible storms blew down upon us from the sea, thunder from the heavens and quakes from the earth.” Slowly, he was becoming less himself, and again his eyes darkened vilely as he spoke, and his voice trembled, with either spite or anger. “Our troubles increased a hundred fold and we knew not why. We could no fathom why the world was changing so, and it hurt us deep within, for it was our world that was being rent asunder, perhaps by your precious Rhais indeed!” He snapped this at Zamara, who was unprepared as Morgôs’ presence swelled and became shadowy like the night. “The stars we loved were blotted from the sky and waves crashed against our homeland. We fled the paradise we had nurtured for so long, and all went into darkness. We were lost.”

He paused for barely a moment, becoming energetic in his speech, and Zamara hastened to pacify him. “I am sorry.” She said, but Morgôs was unaffected, instead replying with a spiteful bite. “You should be.” He cried out, “It is your fault!”

This completely disoriented Zamara. “How is it my fault, General?” Morgôs, his regal eyes narrowed like those of a desert predator, replied with icy rage filling him very slowly. “It is the fault of man!” he shot back, “The coming of mortals lost me my homeland and many of my brethren. It cost me my stars and my sky, replacing the beauty I knew with a vessel that, to mortals is called golden and sunny, but to me is no more than a celestial fraud.” He growled the words terribly, his face twisting into a snarling expression, “All because your God saw fit to make your creation a grand affair, and destroy my home as she made you.”

The High Priestess seemed both skeptical and concerned as she interjected. “How can you know this?”

“When we came to Pashtia, a primitive calendar had been created, so the mortals knew how much time had passed since their birth on the world. They were coeval to the disaster that took my home and my brothers, they had come into existence at that moment, or very shortly afterward if not then. Many of us refused to believe that one event had anything to do with the other, but I knew it was no coincidence. Either the thing who created mortals, in our image,” he added, angrily, “thought it would be best to destroy the old peoples before forging the new, or it was simply trying to issue grandiose fanfare about its creation. That is how it is your fault.”

As the last word died on his tongue, he relaxed, but, unlike before, did not stagger or collapse. He swayed slightly, and Zamara saw the change in him, his sudden fatigue and loss of wind, “I did not know, General.” She said, with possible genuine apology in her voice, but, as she moved towards Morgôs to help him (just as Arlomë had) he waved her off. “You could not have known.” He paused as he regained himself and looked towards her, now rueful, still weary, “Nobody knew. I have never told any mortal the truth.” He breathed distortedly, as if he was short of breath, half gasping for air, but Zamara was now too curious to see his discomfort. “Then why did you tell me?”

“I do not know.” Morgôs shook his head, coughing, but managed to settle himself. Zamara grasped his arm as he swayed more, but he instead took hers and leaned in towards her, whispering in a conspiratorial manner. “You see, when we came to Pashtia, we resolved to look our best for these newcomers, and take them under our wing, so we concealed the truth of our survival. They did not know we were lost and helpless, many of our kind slain by the elements. We did no many more things than they, so we could convince them that we were wise and powerful, from a mighty land from which we had left to seek the far horizon. They believed us willingly and we became lords among them. For millennia, the secret was kept, though some have been told. No noble or lord or king has ever learned the fact, for that tale holds darker truths as well, those that I cannot reveal to you, even after you know all this.” He released her arm, and stepped back weakly.

After another moment of breathing deeply, he had fully returned to normal, and stood stiffly up. It seemed as if he had never been anything other than what he was at the moment; serene and serious.

“Now then, I have a question for you. Why have you asked all these questions?”

[Firefoot]

Siamak paused once outside the temple. It had been a disappointing visit. Well, not wholly. The information that Gjeelea, too, was talking to different people was interesting. But this was not what he had hoped to find. He had wanted advice from the High Priestess and found none save that he should remain loyal to Rhais and pray to her directly for counsel. A thought occurred to him. Surely, had the goddess disclosed Zamara with advice, she would have informed him. But why would the goddess not have imparted wisdom concerning an issue that would impact Pashtia so greatly? Surely the goddess would not abandon the people in their hour of need. And, if the High Priestess did not know, how was he to find out? Siamak was now certain that he and Gjeelea would have to decide this issue on their own, without divine intervention.

Siamak sighed impatiently. Morgôs had seen him leave, surely, and had said that they would meet outside. Fat raindrops began to fall from the sky. The General had also said that they would conduct the lesson outside, but Siamak saw little chance of that. He was grateful to the overhang covering the entrance to the temple; it kept him dry. So where was Morgôs? He had been kneeling when Siamak left, but Siamak had never thought the General was much for religion, and this thought was only solidified by some of the subtle hints in the General's manner of speaking. Not that religion was a major topic in their meetings, but deciphering small hints in people's words had been one thing which Siamak had picked up on quickly, and it surprised him that he had not figured it out before. Now that he understood, talking with the nobles was no longer a threatening ordeal.

Siamak moved closer to the doors, half tempted to go find out what was keeping the General. He did not think that he could actually go in, not after coming right out, and anyway, it might seem rude to be so impatient. No sooner had he edged closer to the door than he heard the sound of voices, muffled by the distance. One of them, Siamak recognized it as Morgôs', was quite loud, in fact. Siamak could not make out anything save the tone, and it was clear that the General was worked up about something. There was only one topic that Siamak had ever seen Morgôs get truly passionate about: Elves of long ago. He backed away from the door hastily, feeling slightly guilty for listening in, though he reasoned that it could not really be eavesdropping since he had not actually heard any words. His interest was piqued, however, especially since he supposed it must be the High Priestess he was speaking to since there was no one else in the temple. He would never actually inquire about it, but he was intrigued nonetheless. At any rate, he now knew the mood of the General and how best to act with him.

Siamak sighed again. Not too much longer, he hoped. Well, he didn't have anything that needed doing anyhow and leaned against a broad pillar to wait, watching the steady drip, drop of the rain.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

[To be added when Tarkan answers the princess…]

-

After she had turned and left Tarkan, Gjeelea smiled smugly as she stalked out of the rooms. It was almost funny to Gjeelea that these ‘valued citizens’ and ‘important Pashtians’ might believe her when she told them their opinion mattered to her. The princess had made her decision about the Emissary as soon as King Faroz had left the burden to her and Siamak. The trips around the city to speak with dignified citizens was meant only to soothe the minds of Pashtia – Gjeelea knew everyone would feel better if they thought the princess actually cared about their opinion of the Emissary.

She had not taken five steps out into the street before seeing Korak walking towards her. Gjeelea stopped and waited for the man, glancing idly at the sky and wondering if and when it would rain.

“What are you doing here?” Korak snapped, and Gjeelea raised a brow. He does not talk to me like that, the princess thought defiantly. No man talks to me like that. “Darling,” he added between clenched teeth.

“I was speaking with the Priest,” Gjeelea informed her betrothed. Korak took steps closer to her, and Gjeelea peered up at him, surprised at how tall he was compared to her. “I could ask the same of you, Lord Korak. What brings you to this part of your business investment?”

“I had hoped to find you.”

“That is strange,” Gjeelea murmured, flashing Korak a coy smile. “Where were you this morning? I had hoped to take the morning walk with you, but you were not at your estate when the messengers sent. Were you out riding? Perhaps you were overseeing the temple?”

Gjeelea wondered when she would run out of things to say to Korak.

[Nurumaiel]

"Yes, I was indeed overseeing the temple," said Korak, and fell silent. He had been waiting for quite some time for the opportunity to see the Princess, and now he found he had nothing to say to her. He struggled for words. It would be easy to run into a long train of conversation that amounted to nothing, but he suddenly felt cautious. Perhaps he had a suspicion that Lady Arshalous was still near. Perhaps he had a suspicion that the Princess would report whatever he said to her father. Whatever it was, he felt that he must choose his words carefully. He wouldn't want to say anything that would put him in a dangerous position.

"I still am overseeing the temple," he went on, trying to sound smooth, and not strained as he felt, "though I intend to leave before too long, and return to my mother. She grows lonely when she is left all alone." He wondered if she were laughing at this strange sympathy for his mother, and he also wondered if he did not actually harbour some feelings for his mother that did not like him to leave her alone for very long. He coughed, and went on.

"It looks to be a magnificent achievement, do you not think?" A thought occurred to him... what if the Princess was opposed to the building of the temple? He would refrain from showing any triumph over the fact that it was being built. And so he could think of nothing to say. He fell into silence. It was terribly awkward, this business of pretending love. He could think of nothing to say.