“I am quite hungry,” Eily says, a touch of whimsy in her voice.

Elam, finding such simple words comical when said in such a way, chuckles.

Eily gazes over at him, offering a pleased smile. “Is that funny, now?”

He peers back at her and smiles as well, quite content in the sight of her joy; he returns his attention forward and they exit the marketplace through the rear access way.

“Elam,” she says, quite poignantly; he looks to her again, wondering what seriousness she sought to voice. “I think you are losing your skill at chasing me.”

He laughs aloud.

“I’m serious,” she says sincerely, though obviously faking the tone.

“Are you, now?”

She looks at him, momentarily mesmerized by his words, though soon returns to herself. “I’m worried, Dom Elam—worried that you will soon be unable to catch me.” They continue walking, moving toward the closest of the great Promincian lighthouses. “What will I be left to do if I am simply expected to continue running like this—say Vaer. Soon I will have to run forever.”

Eily continues walking, though Elam stops. She turns and looks at him, letting his hand fall.

“What is it?”

He says nothing.

“These are genuine concerns, say Vaer,” she says, smiling and nearing laughter.

“I know,” he quips, causing her smile to grow, which it does every time he plays along with one of her ridiculous assertions.

“Well then, why have you stopped?” she asks, crossing her arms.

“I am counting to set.”

“Pardon?”

He smiles. “Well if I am to prove I can catch you again, I must first count to set.”

As she realizes what he meant by this, her eyes grow and she shrieks, beginning to run.

“And… set,” he says, sprinting as he does.

Eily, having no other place to run than the lighthouse promontory, does so, Elam giving chase. The two wind the worn path heading to the tiny outcrop overlooking the sea. Wind catches Eily’s hair and voice as she runs and Elam, seeing her golden locks flying and the sporadic glances back, and hearing her breathing and laughter, knows he had seen and heard beauty.

When she runs out of room, she turns, eyes wild. “Okay, you caught me! You caught me!” she says as he creeps toward her, playful menace making his bloodfire burn with excitement.

In an instant, she tried to run and dodge, twirling, but he catches her from behind, wrapping his arms around her. He squeezes her, but then abruptly loosens his grip and tickles her mercilessly. She roars with laughter, thrashing to get free.

“Let me go! Let me go!” she blurts, laughing without restraint.

Elam does so and she turns, staring at him with narrow eyes, playful annoyance in that leer; Elam sees right though this, knowing she loves such games. Yet looking at her, he knows her eyes could rend the world; all of Areth would collapse before her gaze.

Elam calms and the mood becomes serene, a moment of genuine intimacy subverting the amusement. Eily’s expression softens as well and innocent romance fills her expression. Yet Elam yet does not see the obvious love within her eyes, only the beauty. Leaning forward, he narrows his eyes, an idea churning within his mind. Her stance becomes cautious and her eyes fill with confusion; Elam does not intend to embrace or kiss her, no, his smile means something else entirely.

“What are you thinking?” she asks, tone anxious.

Elam just looks behind her, smile broadening.

Eily’s eyes grew large. “Elam, no!”

Elam takes a step forward, smile growing.

“Elam!”

Though she tries once more to dodge, Elam leaps forward and snatches her, wrapping his arms around her as he does.

“No! Don’t you dare!”

Elam throws her over his shoulder and jumps, leaping clean off the cliff toward the emerald blue sea below. She screams all the way down, though Elam hits the water laughing.

They reemerge from the depths of the emerald sea and Eily thrashes toward a large rock, scaling it in a spasmodic instant. As Elam bobs up, hair matted over his eyes, a huge grin spans his face. He brushes his hair back, looks at her, and explodes with laughter, the expression he sees beyond amusing; irate in that way only a young woman can be, she is furious, yet not angry in the slightest.

He swims toward her and put a hand on the rock, which she seems to ignore, looking away. But when he climbs, attempting to join her, a smirk illuminates her face. Before Elam can react, Eily tackles him back into the sea.

They swim together for several rivers of moments, splashing each other and enjoying the other’s company. Though they both seem greatly elated, hunger resurfaces and forces their return to shore. Yet, after they both had changed clothing and taken a meal, they return to the great Promincian lighthouse and content themselves to sit on a bench that faced the sea.

They sit for a long while and Eily speaks, as is their custom; though he had been present for most of the things she spoke of in her account, he finds no qualms in hearing of the day again, always finding that he loves the perspective on things she offers. As she talks and Elam listens, they watched the late afternoon turn to evening and, in time, Eily falls to exhausted sleep, leaning against Elam and tucked away under his arm. Elam finds contentment in this and remains there, motionless, watching the last licks of green leave the sea and the great lighthouse’s shadow reach for the horizon.

As he sits, the sky changes its color a number of times, as does the sea. Elam does not notice this, however, finding himself in a hearty deliberation, mind considering the bottles held within in his pocket. They have solved a crux for him, he believes. Though he yet remains hesitant to committing his faith to the trinkets, fair though they are. He pats the bundle in his pocket, setting the matter for later thought.

Returning his mind to the present, he gazes upon the sea, a surface that would show its ethereal greenish-blue glow, if not for the night and its present murky sapphire. Elam then notices a faint strobe on the horizon and then another that follows but moments later. A thunderstorm rages somewhere beyond the Ashenuth Peninsula, he figures, filling the great ocean with fresh water and bolts of energy. Elam shivers, regarding the grey whisper of clouds on the horizon as one does the incarnation of a myth-bound legend, fretting the coming rain as he had once feared the fabled Serilgi or Ghlahar.

And, in these thoughts, his mind turns toward wishing—wishing that would go the storm further seaward. If this was a hope set by anyone other than he, perhaps the tempest might not have listened. Yet Elam, deep magic within having learnt the language of storms, speaks commands regarding this matter as normal men voice hopes, and the storm, hearing him, obeys and begins a new journey eastward.

Yet for all Elam’s magic, he knows not how to stop the sound of thunder when it has already been released and the low rumble, coming to him as a great wave, sends his spine shivering; he furls within his coat, finding the fabric only a bit comforting. He understands the fear within his mind, knowing he should not abide such things, yet the heart within him foregoes a man’s logic, bound by the fears of a child.

For Elam’s apprehension, he does not hear Eily stir. Though, when she stretches, this startles him. He sighs and looks at her; she grins and leans against him once more, drowsy. Then she speaks, having seen the gale afar, “I wish that storm would come.”

He peers down to her and she returns the gaze.

“The fields need water,” she says plainly. “Mother Moon has shown her face more times than the sea has brought storms. Grandfather said Promincia was a damp place when we were young, though now it has grown dry.”

Distracting himself from this, Elam clenches his right fist, causing something in his wrist to pop and something else to crack. His hand has been annoyed with him ever since he wrangled with an enormous tezlarian eel some two phases of Mother Moon before. That battle had been grand, though more wonderful still was the meal made of the beast that night; he smiles and rotates his wrist again, cracking it once more.

“You still hate storms, don’t you?” Eily asks, pulling him back to the topic he tried to abandon.

He looks to her for a moment before his eyes fall, downcast by the thoughts and memories. “Yes,” he says, voice haunted.

“Then I’m glad the storm is far off,” she says, an inscrutable smile on her face. She nestles into his side. “No matter the cost,” she adds.

In those words, his heart is hewn. Anguish bubbles within him with a weight like lead. He peers down to her and sees the comfort in her closed eyes. How can he be so weak? How can he fear such childish things?

He, feeling a bit of courage, longs for the storm to reverse its course—to approach Promincia, despite his fears. The storm, a trifle confused, does so, folding upon itself as the one had done in Elam’s youth, though not with such force, as Elam’s plea is gentle.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

In this, Elam feels a bit better.

“Look at the Moons’ reflections,” Eily says in a coo. “How beautiful,” she adds. Elam heeds her, gazing out at the subtly shifting images on the sea’s face. Then, like she always does, Eily begins describing, “The reflections on the sea look like two swans, I think—and the stars’ reflections like fireflies.”

“And the celestial dust?” Elam asks, despite himself.

She looks at him, eyes once more bearing that undeserved look of wonder; his ears warm and he looked away. After a moment, he gazes back, still flush; she smiles, a mixture of joy-filled dimples and eyes squinting with amusement. “Moon cat haze,” she blurts, sounding so much like a child that Elam cannot contain his laughter, remembering the little girl that she once was. “Oh, look at the moons…,” Eily continues, eyes wide and appreciative. “They look so close to one another. I wonder what… what would happen if they were to touch?”

Elam says nothing and, though having never considered the thought, would have assumed the idea madness if not for her asking. How do such questions enter her mind, he wonders; what dreamy imaginings comprise her thoughts?

“I suppose they long to touch, coming so near to each other so many times each set of seasons, yet never having the courage to slow or stop and speak to one another,” she adds, words running together as her voice filled with a strange haste Elam does not understand. What are these thoughts of hers, he wonders; what wonderful spirit of imagination so possesses her?

As Eily adjusts herself for comfort, Elam notices the space between them shrink and feels a nervousness overtake him not unlike the first heat of the morning Greatstar and yet also similar to a plunge into the nighttime sea.

Despite her words, Elam says nothing and moves not; he cannot think of any phrases to say that might endear her and his body will not obey his commands.

“…And the old spire out there on the horizon…. It is so eerie under the moonslight.” She nudges closer once more, this time shivering a bit.

He says nothing, though considers the spire, mind more than willing to leave the thought of Eily which so beset him with inward fire. It reaches out of the sea like a great spear or lance, an immense stone thing perhaps as tall as the Promincian lighthouses.

Yet she speaks again, stealing his attention away. “I wonder if the legends are true—say Vaer, does it contain a treasure like everyone says it does?”

He looks to her, seeing a mystic wonderment in her gaze.

“A magic elixir, a mystic fluid that can cure all pains. Imagine: the ability to cure any sickness, heal any ailment.” She pauses and took a breath. “It just looks like a sharp rock, but I think it does hold that mystic elixir.” She laughs with a soft nervousness and gazes at Elam.

Elam makes no reply, thoughts having become strange noises within his mind. Needing something to do, he reaches into his pocket. He feels the bottles there and remembers the thoughts he had set aside.

Yet he notices Eily looking back to the sea, her voice less excited than before. “But they say it only works in a storm. I cannot imagine anyone foolish enough to—”

Lightning strikes, far nearer than those before, though still a long ways off, interrupts her; Elam shudders. She puts a hand on his shoulder and he jolts in response. Yet, when he realizes it had been Eily, he peers at her. Yet, as he does, the rolling thunder makes him wince.

“‘When one of the white blades of light tried to kill him on the beach, it failed, though he fell into a dreamless sleep, waking to find his voice had disappeared.’” She paused. “That is what some of the more fanciful villagers say.”

Elam, once again, does not reply.

“They are fools to not fear the storms as you do,” Eily says, and Elam looks to her, puzzled.

Her eyes have filled with a compassion the young man does not understand. Only dogs and fools feared storms, Elam believes, yet the strikes of white fire and death howls send him shaking, nonetheless. Why does she accept this weakness in him? What can he be to her if he fears what even most children do not?

“You should speak more,” she says with something that sounds to him like caution, a restraint uncharacteristic of her. “They mistake your silence for a lack of heart.”

Elam looked away and, having no mind for words, pulls the leather pouch containing the bottles from his pocket, feeling he needs to do something.

“What—what are those?”

Elam does not answer, but instead hands her the pouch, forcing his hand not to shake while he does so, an urge to him not unlike resisting shivers in icy winter.

“Is this… for me?”

Elam nods, nervousness exaggerating the action.

She opens a bag with a slowness that makes Elam tense in both his mind and all across his body. Elam has never given her anything before, except customary gifts on her annuals, and he the fear for her reaction to such an unprompted offering sets him to tense himself. The thoughts in his mind become heavy, doubt, regret, and fear, like rain, filling his wispy clouds of thought.

He remembers the young men that travel from other towns, offering Eily gifts numerous as raindrops; but he has never offered one, always having feared her rejection—her coming to see him as though he is like them. One young man had tendered a horse, and another rolls of shimmering cloth; one, begging but a kiss from her, had even offered a silver necklace with a green gem so big that Elam would have needed his thumb to obscure it. Yet she rejected them and all their gifts, furthermore with a grace Elam thought some of the men did not deserve.

Elam wants to be like them in his heart—to buy her things. Yet nothing ever felt right. Furthermore, she rejected everything those men gave and how could he give her anything like horses, or soft velvets, or gems that shine like her eyes? Thinking of his gift, he realizes now in his heart that the offering is so childish—so insufficient—so… so worthless.

He had decided he wanted to give her a bottle—he had come to that idea a time ago. They mean something special, something personal, and when Dem Azoleile had given him the gifts, he thought she knew and approved, as she seemed to know of so many other things. Yet, pondering this now, his conviction wavers.

The storm in his mind becomes tempestuous and absurd actions demanded his consideration. As he watches her unlace the small leather bag, one thought demands that he seize the gift back and run down the path to a place where she cannot not find him. Another finds this conservative, insisting that he take the bag, throw it into the sea, and jump in after. Yet Elam simply wants to undo his gift, return the foolish notion to his mind and forget he had ever entertained it.

Watching him, I find myself amused.

Little does he know, but this gift also has a part to play in his destiny. If Elam did not honor this offering—give this gift—the hammer of Ahrah would remain aloft and Elam would never fulfill his role in The Cord, for, if he is to open The Door, this gift could be likened to a key.

He must give this gift.

In that moment, I sense a familiar presence, though this time not Love or Life and Death; it is Honor who has come. Honor, a quite kin and one of little speech, offers a measured bow of the head, looking to me. I return the gesture and Honor goes about its business, whispering to Elam. Then, but moments later, Honor looks to me once more and we commune for a brief time. After this had ended, Honor departs.

Elam, even in his fear, feels something deep within him—something so deep and so vague that he can hardly believe it is truly there. Yet he understands this thing and knows he has done right. He must do this—must remain strong—and temper what he feels for Eily in the fires of Hope; he, by Love and Honor, resigns to bear this thing to the end, no matter his humiliation.

He cares for Eily.

He will risk himself—his emotional wellbeing—for her.

He cares for Eily.

Eily shivers and he peers down as she finally pulls the contents from the bag. Out clamor the two small bottles, each on a leather necklace. She inspects him, her wrinkled brows giving away her confusion, and, for the first time in the conversation, she remains silent.

He looks down in shame. He never had been good with words—never been good with gifts—why did he—?

“A stone…!” he blurts, resenting the reaction immediately. The words horrify him and he could feel his face redden. He glares away.

After a moment, though, Elam feels a soft hand on his far cheek, Eily gently turning his face toward her. Resigned, he let her guide him; how… how can he resist?

“Elam…?” she asks, voice fragile.

Oh, how can he tell her? What will words accomplish beyond revealing him for the fool he was? He cannot talk. He cannot tell her. No matter what she says, he—

“Please…,” she says, asking… imploring… in a small, soft voice.

He clears his throat; such a word in such a voice demands a response. He will either respond or the pain, the emotion—the everything—might well kill him.

He would die.

…no.

No… he would not die.

He would not die, and he would not leave Eily’s plea unanswered.

“A stone…,” he begins again, slow, controlled voice the only thing possessing power enough to master his nervousness; but he had practiced these words and now he will speak them. “A stone is already that which the ground finds important and a charm holds that which its fashioners find important, but….” He pauses, wishing to stop, but already so far in. “But a bottle you can fill with what is important to you.”

She turns away and another fiery fork of white lightning lights up the sky as she does so.

He glares down, shuttering. He hates himself; hates having heading that urge to get her something; hates everything that made him. “I—,” he begins, but the thunder makes him cringe and steals his words. He waits a long while in silence, but the need to speak bubbles within him, a courage formidable to all hesitation. The words come as a heave. “It was foolish of me to—”

“I l-love them,” she say, interrupting him; he hears the tears in her voice. She sniffs.

Elam raises his head and meet her gaze. Tears fill her eyes and form rivulets on her cheeks.

She then smiles, speaking with a wavering voice. “But why two?”

For this question he has no answer; why had the old woman given him two?

If he had listened to old Azoleile’s instructions more carefully, he might have known, yet in this moment all he can do is grasp at answers. “In case one should break?” Elam whispers, not wanting to explain, answers beyond him.

“I have a better idea,” she says, laughing through tears, a strange sight that makes Elam warm inside, though accompanied by a feeling he does not understand; he, caught by emotions powerful and unknown, yearns to wrap his arms around her and hold on forever. As she leaves the bench, she speaks, the command bearing an amusing authority, like a lady to her knight, “Stand.”

He does, a head and some taller than her.

She pulled one of the bottles from the bag and leans over toward Elam. She reaches around both sides of his neck, tying the necklace’s cords behind him.

Elam gazes at her, unable to prevent the puzzlement from filling his face. These were for her. Why does she—?

“It is something we can share,” she says, a mysterious, conspiratorial tone about her. “We can…. We can each have one… like those promised share rings—” Her voice grows soft and very nervous as she bites her lip. “…like a husband and wife share signs.”

Elam’s mouth opens a little without his asking, the forwardness of her statement dazing him. What woman speaks of such things to a man—furthermore before her own affirmation?

“It doesn’t mean we are actually married, Elam,” she says, her more playful tone returning. “That’s silly.” She then takes a meaningful pause and returns with a devious tone. “You must be patient… That will not be for another few passes of Father Moon—not until my Day of Affirmation when I can choose you.”

Elam prepares himself for a very necessary response when Eily does something he had believed she would never do: cut him off.

“Well, I must be off. The night is late, and I have much to do tomorrow morning. See you when the littlestars sleep and the Greatstar rises.” With that, she disappears with effervescent haste, forbidding any further discussion on the matter.

Elam pauses, having half a desire to chase after her and make her explain. But she left him dumbfounded—shocked… warm? Finding himself standing on feet now uneasy, he wondered if her words had actually been spoken or if the whole thing was some strange imagining on his part.

I watch in amusement; the words had been spoken, indeed, this, I assumed, being the very thing of which Love had hinted.

Elam feels the bottle around his neck, evidence, he eventually decides, that something had occurred, no matter how dreamlike the past moments felt. After a long while and in a cloud of thought so thick as to blind him from his fears of the encroaching storm, Elam begins off.

I watch him round the path, disappearing behind the lighthouse.

He had only acquired and given a pair of innocuous, if well crafted, bottles. Nevertheless, in doing so, he had taken a most important step toward opening The Door. Soon enough something dark will notice his power and the Time of unbesieged steps will pass; those whispering in the darkness—oh, those horrid demons ever mindful of The Door—will soon realize his potential and the brilliance of the soul within him.

I close my eyes to the worlds of men and gazed upon The Cord’s realm, seeing the soul strings weaving in and amongst themselves; The Cord grows thick here, destinies long awaiting the nearing age drawing power and once individualistic threads having begun to intertwine into a concerted force.

I no longer have any doubt: the Fifth Khaa nears… and its arrival centers on Elam.