Elam wakes, trauma having worked a change in him. Rent by a harrowing storm and set to face the trial with such youth, his mind gradually travels down a path of something cold and self-contained… something many might confuse for maturity. Yet it is not such a thing—not wholly. By Truth, it is a thing that conceals and locks away the young boy’s wounds… thereby allowing him to avoid slipping into oblivion.

And so, his thoughts change.

Marshaling all his mental vigor to preserve some damaged piece of himself, he becomes adult-like in many ways, especially in his newfound reservation. His demeanor grows calm and cold, his childish mindset cast away in stride… and, perhaps, at an age too young.

Indeed, most perceptible joy drains from him and he speaks little; some say the storm thieved his words, but few scrutinize too closely, seeing only a childish boy transforming into a very, very young man.

Nevertheless…

Nevertheless…

Nevertheless, a little girl finds great interest in interrupting Elam’s intrepid journey toward hermitage and introversion. Her name is Eily and, at first, she quite bothers Elam, as the girl follows him around almost without end. Oh, indeed, he finds her quite the nuisance, his peaceful bouts of silence interrupted by incessant questions. Though he avoids answering her as often as the scantest bit of politeness will permit, this seems to prove enough talk for her to justify continuing with her inquisitive urgings.

Despite his labors toward isolation, he soon comes to accept her, not unlike an older cat accepts a new puppy, and, in much the same way such animals bond, eventually appreciates her… in a less than affectionate way.

But I see.

I see the beginnings of a lasting bond start to form. And, all seen, Elam, having lost his utter fascination with storms, replaces that enthrallment with an attraction to Eily and, furthermore, an attraction mutually held. I watch them for some two years by the reckonings of Father and Mother Moon and, in the youngling named Eily, Elam has once more discovered joy.

Even so, for this joy, Elam will pay a price heavier even than that which came when he brought the tempest upon himself. And it is on this day that I watch him inadvertently make that choice, somber though the occasion is.

Elam loves climbing to high places and, because of this, Eily will die.

Yet the boy knows this not and he hides, as he often finds himself doing, because Eily loves to play a game called seeker. But, oh, I am getting ahead of myself. Indeed, you must be very confused, as that is certainly not the normal rules of the oft played seeker. My apologies. No, Elam has to hide because he runs far faster than her and, in a bout of genuine maturity, believes it rather unsporting to simply stay out of her reach. Indeed, he hides, satisfying Eily’s ever-elated curiosity and playing to his own quietness and ability to remain still.

At present, he rests on a branch in a Dalnveird tree named Elnon, lolling as a crag lion might, comfortable, though poised to move at a moment’s beckoning. The tree has seen more than three hundred harvests and, though Elam rests on one of the lower branches, he still finds nine long armlengths between himself and the ground.

But should he wish to go higher, as he often does, he has made himself a place up near the sky, the tree being just more than a hundred armlengths in height. When Elam ascends to his hammock near the top, something he only does when adults—and notably Dara—are quite unaware, he lounges and looks up, watching the clouds sail in the sapphire sky as boats do on the bluish emerald sea. Yet on this occasion, the clouds do not have his attention; no, whilst resting where he does, Elam has eyes only for Eily.

Eily, meanwhile and darting about in quite a fit, has eyes only for Elam, if, of course, she can manage to find him.

Oh, how he loves having her seek him, though this is only a growing realization. When he had first played with her and at a time when he found her quite bothersome, he hid with such prowess as to be rid of her. He knew she would not find him and so he was correct, though found no satisfaction in this because Eily, seeking him, sought and sought and sought until finally he found being with this Eily and the questions she asked far less maddening than being cramped in some storage bin or underneath in a pile of leaves. An unsearchable mark, after all, is unable to move and go about his life.

In time, he would reveal himself, utterly bored and stiff, yet… yet would find himself reluctantly pleased by her reaction. Oh, how she applauded his skill at hiding! He felt pride warm his chest and set fire to his ears, the usually stoic and collected Elam unable to meet her glowing green eyes that so sparkled with that look of admiration.

And so, as he hid, he began to do so with… less… stealth, making himself a fair degree more detectable; after all, when she found him, she made him feel so clever with her words. Soon he came to love being discovered by her, which, of course, required being found. Soon enough he hid willingly when she requested, something she did with great delight and frequency.

Yet, despite this excitement on her part, Elam believed she liked to look for him because of what happened afterward. After she found him, she would insist that it had become his turn to be seeker, though she herself did not hide. No, as is more in line with what the rules of seeker typically dictate, Eily ran. Furthermore, because she ran, she insisted that he had to physically catch her if she was to seek him again. For his part, Elam found this reasonable; it was, after all, quite easy to simply find her if she stood right before him.

Nevertheless, and despite Elam’s superior speed, Eily knew how to run in swerves and zigs and zags and crooked, jarring, unpredictable movement, never keeping the same direction for too long. This, as one might imagine, is a most infuriation thing to a boy so fast. In a race, he would beat her every time, though race she did not. She wove amidst grain, and trees, and all manner of things Elam could not merely run through, constantly forcing him to slow and change his course.

Oh, she was a master at being chased.

Yet I have become distracted once more, it seems. Indeed, it is not time for him to chase her at present, nor… I regret… the time to revel in the joys of such childish games. Fate, my own charge, has a role to play in the coming events and I find the taste sour.

Let us get it over with.

Whilst Elam hides in the tree on this still, spring morning, motionless and quiet as beads of dew on the blades of grass, it remains for Eily to discover him, and so she seeks to do. He watches her dart about beneath Elnon’s branches, the morning mist swirling like pipe smoke in a stuffy tavern. Having found a clue he left that it means he has concealed himself nearby, she has begun to hunt in earnest. Elam watches as she tries to move stealthily through the stalks, though her position, seen from above, proves quite obvious as she shifts the corn with her searching; she is like a kitten in tall grass, convinced of slyness, yet utterly unmissable. Suddenly, she ducks in and out of the pale green corn chutes, attempting to catch Elam off guard as a breeze picks up.

Meanwhile, the grand chorus of adolescent plants attempts to sing a whooshing song, an endeavor best left for harvest; their lithe youth lends to a more strained texture of sound, punctuated by the occasional set of ticks or squeaks of well-hydrated stalks.

Soon Eily abandons the grain fields around Elnon and explores the mossy grotto beneath the grand Dalnveird’s canopy. Quite the magnificent place for a picnic, the bulging lichen-covered and leaf-shaded hill hosts a comfortable, shady conclave. Glistening lances of the Greatstar’s light diffuse in the morning fog and ancient beards of moss meet shifting shadows, wispy particles dancing in the air.

“Elam!” Eily demands, evidently trying to find him with her words, her eyes thus far failing to do so. “Elam, where are you?”

Elam does not answer her, of course, and keenly knows this outcry serves merely as the beginnings of frustration on her part. He has seen this many times before. Nevertheless, he knows that once she finds him, this yearning will make her all the more pleased with herself for the achievement… and with him, for finding such a taxing place to conceal himself. He, therefore, does not answer her call. Of course, deep in himself, he knows this is more because he likes watching her look for him than any sort of pity.

“Elam!” she calls out again. “Where are you!”

He needlessly suppresses a smile and remains still.

Perhaps if he was to heed her call—to descend and let her discover him—Eily will not die. Nevertheless, Elam remains motionless in the wind, watching Eily and listening as the dancing branches of Elnon sing their swishing, leafy songs. He smells wood in the air, detecting a live, loamy scent he sometimes describes as “green,” though knows quite well by now that one cannot smell colors—or at least not especially well. He feels the gnarled bark in his fingers, nooks and channels much smoother and more spacious than that of oak or celn; so spacious are they, in fact, that finch squirrels often find them a comfortable resting nook. No… no… no… Elam’s perch just proves too appealing to him and he will abandon it not, especially when he remains unaware of any reason to do so.

A warm spot on the back of Elam’s neck catches his attention, and he shifts slowly to see a beam of the Greatstar’s hot light has made its way through the canopy above; in his mind, morning greatstarlight should not be this hot. Within this lance, he sees little dancing particles, the tiny specks seemingly more than happy to float about in their glowing shaft of light, though he himself finds the brightness irritating. He shifts his body a little in order to escape the beam, yet it follows him, blazing once more upon his exposed neck.

Perhaps if Elam knew Elnon did this by design, going to far as to use accumulated dew droplets on his leaves to focus the greatstar’s light, Elam may have paid more attention; trees, even ones of the Dalnveird variety, do not do such things without a good reason, save perhaps Hhalelae, which are, after all, quite tricksy and prone to antics. But Elnon, a noble and kind-hearted tree, has begun to sense the gravity of the impending moment, and knows that it is of grave importance that Elam leaves his branches, even if Elnon himself remains somewhat unenlightened as to the details. Elam, however, does not respond, pulling his shirt over his neck to block the heat.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

In time, Elam experiences a new sort of discomfort. Unbeknownst to Elam, Elnon has hardened the bark around the boy, making it a fair degree coarser and removing all of the loamy softness so typical of a happy Dalnveird. Elam, skilled amateur in the art of stillness though he is, has yet to build the fortitude to remain indefinitely motionless, and finds an urge to move creep within him, tickling at his mind. At first, the impulse comes as something of an itch, though soon burns with a soft insistence. When his muscles became like fire, he finally adjusts himself, and, with that, so does a small branch behind him, breaking loudly as it does.

Elam cranes back, astonished; surely, he had not broken branch, as it was half an armlength from his foot. Figuring out the truth, he gasps; it had been Elnon! Elam stares at Elnon’s trunk, assuming, as mortals often do, that that is where tree’s equivalent to a human’s face happens to be, which is about as amusing as it is arbitrary.

“Elam!” comes a cry from below. Before the boy can really recognize what he is thinking, and all thoughts of Elnon leave his mind. He peers down to see Eily, her face bearing an unabashedly peevish expression. “Elam, it’s against the rules to hide in trees, you know that! And breaking one of old Elnon’s branches! How could you?”

He knows this rule well; she does not like him hiding anywhere more than an armlength off the ground, though she only makes such rules because she is a dreadful climber. What is more, why does it even matter? Is it as though she has to climb up and get him? Does she not merely have to determine where he is before it becomes her turn to be sought? At that thought, deeply irritated, he begins to reevaluate the fairness of this “seeker arrangement.”

What is the most irritating, however—the thing that truly bothers him—is that she would not only think that he had broken one of Elnon’s branches, but furthermore with some sort of malicious intent she so apparently detests! Absurd! What reason would he have for purposefully harming so precious a tree? Elam glares at her, a hotness in his head.

She, having spent some time interpreting his stares, appears to understand. “Don’t you look at me like that, I heard the branch break!” She crosses her arms. “Now come down and chase me, I found you so it is your turn to be seeker.”

I take pause. If Elam was to heed this—to descend and chase her about—Eily may yet live.

But I know Elam…

I know the path of The Cord.

That will not be his choice.

Eily’s remark has inflamed his annoyance. She has not found him, he believes—not in a fair way, at least. No, Elnon, sacred tree though he is, had betrayed his location to her for some inscrutable reason.

Elam does not want to play the game anymore; no, he wants to go to his hammock high in the branches and be alone, staring at the drifting clouds and letting time forget him. Acting on this, Elam navigates down his branch’s length, much to the relief of Elnon as I can see, the tree calming and its bark becoming soft once more. But when he begins climbing the trunk, the Dalnveird tree tenses and Eily calls out. “Elam, what are you doing?”

Yet Elam ignores her.

Elnon, desperate to get Elam from its branches, begins its only recourse. The leaves turned starward, blocking out the Greatstar’s light and besetting the branchy hollow inside with a cave-like blackness. The little thatches whip about like scores of probing antennae and the thick limbs are as ship masts in a strong wind, groaning and lurching. The limbs begin to sway and creak as if in a storm and this alone might have terrified Elam into climbing down, save for him not knowing to make the comparison. If only he had been near a tree during a storm.

Alas…

Elam, now annoyed with Elnon too for taking Eily’s side, flies through the dancing branches as if such a realm was his home of many years, navigating the writhing mass undaunted. Undeterred, he claims with what seemed to be semi-divine talent or perhaps as if aided by magic, the latter proving the truer of the two.

When Elam reaches the halfway point, Elnon stops its thrashing as doing so only serves to endanger the boy. The tree seems to know Elam’s little mind has already been set and there remains no hope of changing it. Elam reaches his hammock shortly thereafter and plops himself therein, finding a comfortable spot near the center of the large net. Yet he finds no contentment in the sky and, stewing in his annoyance for Eily, looks for her, rationalizing it as a concern that she might go tattle to an adult. Returning his gaze to the land beneath, he catches a sight that sets him to marvel.

He sees Eily climbing after him.

Her progress is slow, of course—downright slugly, if he is cruel with his words. But he cannot understand why she tries to reach him. She hates climbing. If she wishes to scold him—or catch him, perhaps—he would let her try; it would be nigh on a day before she will reach the hammock at her pace. Even so, he believes that she, faced with time and toil, will resign her task and return to whence she came. Nonetheless, as he beholds her, he sees a fiery determination in her eyes and suspects that she intends to continue upward, even if it takes her an entire phase of Mother Moon to reach him.

Perhaps if he takes mercy—to see her struggle and count it a worthy cost for his return—all might be well. Perhaps if the vein of selfishness meets its match in the boy’s compassion, Eily might live. Nevertheless, the boy has become a person of observation and not action, saving deeds only for when such things are unavoidable. And, seeing such a sight as this, he waits and watches, enthralled.

He watches her climb for a while longer, seeing her pace gradually slow to the point of near immobility. As he looks upon her, seeing her slowly draw nearer, he notices the shake in her hands; he sees how each grasp for a new handhold proves wary and wrought of overwhelming uncertainty. Fragments of reason began to fall in place within the boy’s mind and he finally makes the connection, realizing why she climbs so slowly. She had not his skill of his hands, no—nor his vigor or strength. Yet it concerns neither of these. The truth of it—the deep Truth—is that she feels the same way about climbing that he does about storms.

She fears climbing.

In a rush and unable to think of any other suitable recourse, he flies to the edge of his hammock and begins a descent. A benevolent-hearted act though this is, the action comes too late and, all said, proves the very deed that will seal her future, at least as it concerns his own ability to avert it.

Seeing this rash motion on his part, Eily tenses, perhaps believing herself in more danger than she is, which, even unembellished, is already considerable. Elam, flying down the branches, sees Eily make the mistake of looking down. Terror fills her eyes. She wraps herself around the nearest branch.

And thus the last power over Eily’s future leaves Elam’s hands; all the boy’s hope having crumbled. In just under fifteen passes of Father Moon, in just shy of ten and five Arethinian years, Eily will die and Elam can do nothing to stop it, all because a young boy refuses to leave a very old tree.

Yet…

Yet, even as one’s power over a matter wanes, so does opportunity in another strengthen, for, if Eily does not die, The Door, one of Seven and of Khaahn, will not open and Elam, though perhaps happier, will never fulfill his destiny. After all, Elam had spoken of these things to Death and with Life; he had seen this path and, though he cannot now remember what will be required of him, as a young boy on the brink of finality… he had chosen this course over paradise.

But is beyond Elam now.

No, Elam, seeing Eily terrified and on the branch below, considers this not, mortal mind unaware of The Cord and its many windings.

No, his thoughts are for Eily.

He flies downward near as fast as one might expect to freefall and it seems to Elam that Elnon himself bends his branches to give Elam reprieve. The old Dalnveird’s wood somehow feels sad in the boy’s hands.

When Elam reaches Eily, he sees a scared child wrapped around a very large branch. He has never seen Eily afraid and this sight rends his heart, besetting his body to shake, ears to smolder, and eyes to tear. He hates himself as he perches there, feeling the dense burden of foolishness weigh within his chest and an overwhelming sadness press from within his mind.

He touches her warily and she immediately looks to him, momentarily distracted, it seems, from her fear. They gaze at each other, both silent.

Then, in a heartbeat, Eily has left the branch and embraced Elam as a cat might cling to someone when that someone is foolish enough to hold it over rushing water.

Securing himself and her, Elam descends the tree with all the haste he can muster, which is considerably less than usual. Having the weight of another to bear and no extra arms or legs to assist in doing so makes the task more difficult, of course, but it is further complicated by never having moved with someone clinging to his back before. Nevertheless, he navigates to the ground with a squirrel’s grace, if not its speed.

Soon they come to rest beneath Elnon’s shade and the canopy calms, allowing light beams to issue through the leafy limbs once more, though foggy morning place still seems somewhat gloomy. The shifting branches groan, all of which sound forlorn, as if at the end of a long and difficult journey. Elam also hears and feels Eily crying as he holds her close, the two of them nestled in a snug grotto grown of Elnon’s exposed roots, which, it seems to Elam, holds the two of them just as he himself holds Eily.

As they rest, I feet a presence and look about, seeing Love, which smiles; such an entrancing expression comes from it.

“How are you, Fate?” Love asks, the incredibly mortal question sounding so lovely on its lips. Love, of course, knows exactly how I feel and I it. But we both like words, an undeniably worldy means of communication.

“Good as ever, Love,” I reply.

Love giggles. “Very well then,” Love says, smiling again. Love peers at Elam. “What a special one we have here.”

“This is the one to open the Fifth Door,” I say.

“Really?” Love asks, though it already knows the answer.

“Indeed.”

“That Time already? Hmm.” Love pauses. “Very well then, I must hurry. There are things to be done.”

I laugh. This is a joke of hers, of course; the Greater Spirit Beings operate outside of Time—Time itself being one of us. Hurry, therefore, has no rational meaning to my kin and me.

Love then begins ministering to both Eily and Elam.

I relate to Love the best among my kin… it having changed as much as I had. The Dissonance had introduced evil into the worlds and Love, so emotionally tied to creation, became Hate as well. Nevertheless, this is no mortal hate, but a force, and one righteous; where there is evil, there must be a Hate toward it. But, oh how Hate troubles Love; it is certainly the most grieved among us. Even when I show Love The Cord, it laments the cost.

Love then peers up at me, its task completed.

“You are finished?”

“I am.”

“Goodbye then, Love,” I said, sad it is leaving.

“Goodbye, Fate,” it replies. Then, with another smile, it disappears.

I sigh, the mortal-nature of the expression only surpassed by its contagiousness, then, after a few moments, return my attention to Elam and Eily.

After a while, Eily stops crying, though Elam holds her longer still, letting some rivers of moments pass before he considers doing otherwise. Yet it is not Elam who lets her go, but Eily who distances herself from him to a degree… just enough to look into his eyes.

“Why was I so afraid?” she asks, an empty soullessness in her voice.

Elam says nothing, mind unsure of which words to use, his mouth having been out of practice for some time; this hollowness causes him to fear.

“I don’t want to be afraid,” she adds.

Elam’s thoughts become a tempest within his mind. They spin doubts and fears about like debris. His head pulses and ideas bumble about maddeningly, evading full scrutiny. But then he remembers something… remembers how she loves to be chased, mind seeking to translate this into some form of words. After a long pause, he speaks. “I….”

Eily peers at him. He finds this gaze both surprised and interested. He wonders why she always looks at him in such a way when he talks—oh, how nervous she makes him!

I chuckle; perhaps if the boy spoke more, his words would not be such a spectacle each time they came.

Elam turns, determinately staring away. “If you want… I… I could be the seeker.”

Eily speaks again, this time through a reserved smile. “Will you count a stream of moments and chase me?”

Elam nods, relieved that the effort has brought her cheer; he knows not what he would have done if the words had failed.

“And you won’t climb?” she asks, soft voice needing reassurance, Elam knew.

“Ay relest’valay oo,” he answers without pause, repeating words he had read in The Ambraveus. I give the power of speech to thee, the words mean, and he feels a strange ancientness within himself as he speaks them.

Elam guesses the pledge must have touched Eily for, after a few moments, she stands, walking a couple steps toward the corn field. “I do not think I could require that.” She pauses, turning. “You love being near the sky far too much. At times, I wonder if you are an angel.”

The two then gaze at each other and I watch their young eyes fill with the kindling of a bond the likes of which neither yet understand; Love has done its job well, it seems. Then, in an instant, Eily turns and disappears, seeking some hiding place among the uncut stalks of grain.

Elam sighs and begins to count, ready to put the incident at the tree behind him.