4. Súalthë and Parmír

List of Names:

* Mëadáln (MAY-a-dahln, MAY-a-dayln, by dialect)

* Súalthë (SOO-al-thay)

* Parmír (PAHR-meer)

* Seldúmar (SEL-doo-mahr)

* Seldúmai (SEL-doo-mahy)

* Glormarlín (Glor-MAHR-leen)

* Ántiel (AHN-tyel, AHN-tee-el)

* Urivari (UHR-i-vah-ree, OOR-i-vah-ree)

* Alëárnil (a-LAY-ayr-nil)

* Tórluori (tohr-LWO-ree)

* Elórrim (eh-LOHR-rim)

This is a tale of the golden elves in their youth, in the dawning days of Mëadáln the Gleaming Flower, their greatest city. It concerns two friends, Súalthë and Parmír, Lords of the City and of the king’s household; and it is a tale about the origin of their houses.

Long ago, early in the Second Age of this land Sylvanalor, Seldúmar King of the Golden Elves lay encamped south of the mountains. It was but a short while (to the elves) since the end of the Great War: that conflict where the good peoples, under the banners of the angels, had defeated the hosts of the Enemy. While the angels continued their duties, seeking out those demons that remained in hiding, the goodly races had peace to spread and establish their realms.

And time to mourn their losses. For terrible beyond imagining were the battles of that war, and the angels themselves sorrowed, laboring with only a portion of the souls that had once descended, singing joyfully, from outside. Now King Seldúmar had lost much, of his family and people, and he grieved especially for Seldúmai his father, lost in the war’s last years. Remembering his smile and the warm light of his face, Seldúmar wept, and his people with him – for the fallen king had been loved by all, one of the greatest rulers of the elves.

But the people grieved for Seldúmar too, lost in his sadness; for he had led them through all manner of evil undespairing, a bastion of courage and hope, and had stood like a flaming pillar in the last years of the war. And now, brokenhearted, he set his camp beneath the mountains; and though his brother and sister and other lords had set out, exploring the golden-elf lands (and hoping in part to find something for his cure), he and the closest of his household remained, still in posture of war.

Now those mountains were the right arm of what is called the Central Range, the arm that thrusts eastward over nigh a score of peaks. The nineteenth and last mountain slopes down, its eastern feet touching a plain called Last Hope’s Pass: the very pass the Glormarlín dwarves held open during the Great War, despite unimaginable loss. That mountain the elves named Ántiel; and it was just south thereof that the king and his men were encamped. It was a high place where they lay their tents, and defensible, bounded south and east by mighty cliffs; but fair, flowing grass ran atop the plateau, between small meadows of white and yellow flowers. Indeed it was a place of loveliness that Seldúmar would not depart from, but he tarried there rather from grief. And yet at times he felt something else, a strange, elusive feeling that came and went; and so he remained, mourning his father, and waiting for he knew not what.

It was in these circumstances that Lords Súalthë and Parmír began to explore. These lords were the youngest of the king’s household, still youths by elven standard; and they were the most passionate by far of his people. This was not due only their age: for both were said to have blood of the Urivari, the Fire Elves, in their veins. True or no, such rumors were strengthened by their hair: for Súalthë’s was a fiery orange, Parmír’s a crimson red. Certainly the Urivari’s wanderlust lay in them; and full of pity for their king but also afire with longing, they set out investigating their surroundings, to discover secrets and find hidden places. First they traversed the cliff to south and east, scaling its entire length, then continued to the gently wooded slopes below. There are other tales that mention the wild caves and fey places they uncovered there, and in other woodlands west of the plateau – this tale concerns what they found turning northwards, as they ascended the mountain.

The lowest slopes of Ántiel are gentle, and the lords had no difficulty in the climb. Súalthë led the way, admiring the gold and orange lupines at the mountain’s feet. Parmír followed, his eyes on the trees – small mulberries and large elms rose, here and there, now singing gracefully in stronger winds, now murmuring in softer ones. Despite the pleasure of the sights, the lords were arrayed for battle; for though they remembered it not themselves, they had grown all their lives among a people hardened by centuries of war. Súalthë was clad in scarlet mail, trimmed in gold, and at his side lay a sheathe of copper and brass, set with fire-opals; within was a razor-edged blade. Parmír wore a cloak of crimson, and beneath his mail glinted a dull red; but on his back was slung a bow of white ash. It was a gift of the angels, carved with patterns of swan-feathers, its string a glittering silver. His scabbard of red iron inlaid with garnets held a silver sword.

As they went further the trees became few. Instead of lupines, the elf-lords saw steepening slopes colored with the fairest of flowers. They beheld columbines of heavenly blue and lightest yellow, and anemones of gentlest pink; other blossoms they saw that they did not know, like chimes of crystal and pearly bells on the mountainside. The winds became greater, and they drew their cloaks tightly about them. At one point a sudden cliff rose before them, rocky and steep. Feeling adventurous, the friends began the ascent (though turning aside might have revealed a gentler way). Mounting it unscathed, they turned atop the cliff and looked back. Already high above the camp, they saw far below the tents of their people, and flags of gold and white fluttering, emblazoned with images of the sun. There in the encampment’s center was King Seldúmar’s banner, and it was gold: the sun upon it flamed a golden-orange, and below bloomed fair marigolds and yellow roses.

“Therein sits our king” said Parmír, “lost in the darkness of his sorrow, hiding in the shadows of grief. Remember, Súalthë, the story they told us, of his stand in the hills to the west? He and his brother were outnumbered a dozen to one, by demons of black scale and horn and fang and bone, but the defenses had to hold. No help could come. And he held them together for seven days, men falling all about him, himself wounded and sleepless. He led first of all, rallying the knights from every attack, charging again and again into the black fires to hold the breach. And they held, for seven days, until his father came.” They stood silent a moment, their eyes on the gold banner. “Until his father came. The Great King Seldúmai, Súalthë, is never coming back. He rests in Alëárnil now. Do you think, friend, that we can really help the king?”

Súalthë turned to Parmír, his brown eyes aflame with resolve. “I am sure of it” he answered. “Alëárnil the One did not make this land a waste, nor does he intend its purpose to be death and sorrow. He made this a place of life, and now that it is safe there are a thousand secrets to be uncovered, of wonder and passion and peace. We will find something to shake our king out of the shadows, and bring him to life again. I am sure of it.” Parmír smiled. The two lords turned northward again, and continued up the mountain.

The slopes became rockier and steeper still, and the two reveled at the challenge – for they were warriors of the golden elves, a strong people, and the young lords were athletic even by this measure. They struggled on, delighting in the exertion and breathing deeply of the high air. Suddenly the rockiness lessened a bit, and a belt of trees rose before them; but these were all large pines and firs, crying aloud in the winds. They stopped and looked at each other for a moment, and Parmír shrugged. Then they continued on toward the trees. As they drew closer Súalthë pointed, ahead and to their left. There lay a large boulder, alone just before the pines, and right in front of it there ran a small path, heading into the wood. Súalthë led the way over to it, and both were puzzled: for the path seemed to originate right there, and head up the slope to the trees; there was no sign of it at all going downwards! Investigating the boulder all the way round, they found nothing. “A curious sign!” said Súalthë laughing. “It leads right to the stone as if to a front-door. But no answer – and no way in. Is it all in jest?”

Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

“Perhaps,” said Parmír, “or some fey spirit of the mountain dwells here. But if stories we heard of old are true, some of our people’s deadliest foes lurk in the mountains, or below.” The two were now alert. They had themselves fought goblins in the mountain passes before, and knew enough not to trust a seemingly normal rock. They had also faced giants; and both had heard tales of their ancestral enemies the Tórluori, the dark elves, as well as other evil things that lived beneath the earth. Hands to their swords, they turned north again and hurried on, following the path into the trees.

It was not long before their concerns were verified. Amidst the evergreen belt, they found an open glade, surrounded by firs; but the entire clearing was burnt as if by fire. They drew their swords, Súalthë’s with a red flash; Parmír’s glowed silver-white. Their thoughts now wheeled to monsters of flame, and to tales of demons and devils fled, hiding in the mountains from the angels. Even dragons crossed their minds, for these too had fought in the Great War. But this was no longer an exploration, in search of beauty and magic. A terrible threat was near, it seemed, and dangerously close to their camp. The two locked eyes, and nodded as one. They went on.

The small path led to the other side of the glade, and beyond. For a while it was lined with embers, flickering in afternoon light, but as they reached the end of the evergreen belt the smoldering signs disappeared. The path continued, however, now leading to a very steep climb. This craggy slope was clothed in mountain heather, in hues of amber and cinnabar and golden-orange among the rocks. Holding their blades in one hand, they labored up the slope, keen ears peeled for the slightest noise. But the winds continued, running through the heather, and no other sound could be heard.

After a long time, they reached the last of the heather-clad rocks, and stopped to rest. They had come far higher on this last slope, and looking back their people’s camp was now small in the distance. The path, curiously leading all this way, went still onward, and they saw ahead of them another belt of trees. These were unlike any they had seen before: for they were not tall, but stood almost arrow-straight, and their deepest-green leaves covered limbs gray as the mountain-stone. To left they ran for a hundred feet, before reaching a dangerous plunge where the mountainside ran straight downwards; the roots of the nearest trees hung gnarled and twisted over the sheer edge. To right the unknown trees ran ‘til sight of them was hid by a far-off veil of mist.

Walking up to the nearest tree, Parmír reached out and touched its trunk. “It is hard and strong” he said. “Strong as steel! In all the lore of our people, I have never heard of a tree such as this!”

“I have,” said Súalthë, “but once only. It was in a tale of the Elórrim, our brethren the gray elves.” But before he could go on, there came a remote sound, and he gave a soft hiss of breath and pointed forward. Turning, Parmír saw it too: ahead and above, an unguessed span away, there was a blaze of fire. Though its source was concealed in the trees, beyond their sight, such was its strength that a soft glow reached to near where they stood. But as yet they felt no heat. They darted into the wood, taking cover; then, cautiously, they crept in the direction of the glow. Both were certain that some deadly dragon lay ahead, and that they would soon face its fire. But they were courageous lords, and imminent battle made them daring, not afraid. Parmír sheathed his sword, took up his white bow, and pulled out a glimmering arrow. They advanced toward the flames together.

After a minute, the stony trees began to lurch upward. An incredibly steep rise, almost vertical, presented itself, gray trunks marching up its side. Still the path was there, winding between outflung roots, and they followed it as they were able, using those roots and occasional branches to maneuver themselves up, slipping on loose stones all the way. As they went the glow grew stronger and stronger. A few minutes later, they reached the top of the rise: beyond, the ground seemed to turn gentle and almost flat. Huddled against the cliff-side just below, they waited, listening. Then looking to each other, on some silent signal they leapt up as one, and rushed onto the even ground. And this is what they saw.

Before them lay a beautiful plateau. It extended for a furlong before them, and a hundred yards on either side; the sheer rise they had just overcome surrounded it, but on the opposite side towered yet another cliff. Here and there a gray rock protruded from the level ground, but all else was clothed in a glory of colors. For an alpine meadow covered the place: short flowers like mountain phlox, in swirling patterns of ruby, vermillion, auburn and gold, flowed like a sea of fire. Biterroots of rose and saffron and brilliant white dotted the field like a thousand stars. And here and there small azaleas blossomed, islands of coral and cherry-red and carnelian like dancing flames. But at first, none of this held their attention; for in the plateau’s center, upon the largest rock, there perched a phoenix.

Its breast was aflame with crimson, scarlet-orange, and lightest gold. Massive wings lay folded at its sides, and below razor-clawed feet rested on the rock. The feathers of its neck and back and sweeping tail were a deeper red and red-orange; and on its face, flanking a terrible beak, were pure golden eyes. The sunset from the west bathed it, and all the plants around. The elf-lords froze. The magnificent bird was looking right at them. They sensed that it was formed of an ageless flame – older than imagining, and yet unchanging – something hotter and intenser and more alive than they had ever known. And an inner fire they sensed from it, more powerful still. Awestruck and afraid they gazed upon it, motionless. Súalthë’s sword fell from his hand, and Parmír dropped his bow.

Long they stood there while it looked at them, perfectly still; and though the young lords told that they stood long, if they or the firebird spake any words they have kept silent. On a sudden it raised its wings, and they were tremendous: a score of feet each way the mighty pinions spread, realgar feathers burning with a pure, consuming flame. Sparks of gold radiated from it, as it rose into the air, and from its splendid tail embers fell like garnets, red as blood. The two cried out in terror and fell to the ground. But even as it lifted its wings, an incredible song came to their ears. Indescribable as the thought of Alëárnil the One, its floating melody descended on them, seizing their hearts. Of that music this tale tells little, for the lords could not express it. Lovely and piercing, they could only tell that it held a sadness unsurpassed by anything in their lives, but also the most passionate love they had ever known; a love so urgent that they felt it in their inmost selves. Neither lord ever forgot that music, and they carried it in them for the rest of their lives. Looking up at the firebird’s majesty, they saw it look back at them, once more, and hold them in its eyes. Then, with a soul-wrenching cry, the phoenix beat its huge wings, a single time. A gale spread through the meadow; and, with an eruption like a firestorm and a flash of blinding flame, it vanished.

Thus were born the Seventh and Eighth Houses of The Gleaming Flower, City of the Golden Elves. For though they did not move for a long while after the phoenix disappeared, when they did they descended the mountain immediately to see the king. Returning to the great camp they passed straight to the center, and those who saw them were astounded. For an inexpressible emotion lay in their faces, between ecstasy and urgency and adamant resolve; and they walked with utter purity of purpose, as they strode to the king’s tent, more sure of their errand than any knight or lord the people had ever seen. Many were frightened, and some whispered that they were possessed, but others said they came with tidings of some great evil, and of coming war. Fey they seemed, or else transformed by something unimaginable. Yet they had audience with King Seldúmar, telling him of the great firebird in all its power and beauty; and such was their fervor, but at the same time their perfect peace, that they convinced the king to accompany them in seeking out the creature.

And, as has been writ elsewhere, they found it not again. But exploring the mountain King Seldúmar came upon the Golden Dragon, and speaking with it he was comforted, and inspired to build Mëadáln, the City of Brilliant Flowers, greatest achievement of the golden elves. That is another tale. Suffice to say of this one that King Seldúmar made the two future Lords of the City, appointing to Súalthë the Seventh House and to Parmír the Eighth. This caused no dissension among them: for deeply called by the sight, Parmír sought a life of contemplation, and only with reservation accepted even the least House of the City at urging of the king. And Súalthë named his House the Fireflower, remembering ever the mesmerizing flame-burst as the creature disappeared; but Parmír, never forgetting his sight of the beast nor its unquenchable, immortal song – named his House the Phoenix.