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Solace of Water

Such a strange wood was this; once it had covered nearly half the continent, but now . . . Now it was but a shadow of its former self. Well did Valireau recall that glorious wood, for he had oft slept beneath its boughs, listening to the mirthful voices of the trees in their youth. How the world had changed since those happier days, now as vague and hazy as a passing dream. No longer did the trees sing with joyful voices, no longer did they dance merrily beneath the starlight; now their hearts were stained with bitterness and hostility, made dark by misuse and ill-treatment. Yet it was here, beneath the darkened branches of those ancient and forbidding trees, that Valireau felt most at peace. Perhaps he felt a connection of kindred spirits with those ancient giants, so dark and twisted now by years of torment, betrayal and loss; for was he not also but a darkened shadow of his former self?

Silently the warrior made his way through the winding paths of the dark forest, his tall, elegant figure shining with an ethereal beauty as he moved beneath the shadowed branches, unimpeded by the malice of the trees. Perhaps they sensed in him a creature not unlike themselves; a being who had suffered immeasurable loss and agony throughout the ages and had thus been stained by his torment. One who was not a being of evil will, not truly, but rather one of sorrow. Yes . . . Surely the ancient sentinels of this ancient wood could sense what was in his heart, for they hindered him not, nor attempted to lead him astray. Knowing this granted Valireau a small measure of comfort, for in this forest, so dark and forbidding, he was not alone. Here there was companionship and peace. Here . . . there was acceptance. In the darkness of the forest he felt at home, felt that he belonged. After so many years of wandering in loneliness and grief, unable to call any place home for the way his mere presence unnerved others, it was a blessing to have at least one place where he was not forsaken.

He heard the fall before he saw it, the loud pounding of the water as it beat against the rocks a sweet balm to his tormented soul. As he stepped through the last of the trees in his path Valireau beheld a small pond sheltered in the heart of a secluded glade and fed by a flowing waterfall. It was beautiful. Often did he come to this place, for it soothed his anguished heart. Without hesitation he stripped down to nothing but his leggings and boots, leaving his upper body completely bare, and strode with confidence towards the powerful falls. From the corner of his eye Valireau noticed a faint flicker of gold and green before it vanished amidst the trees.

Her . . .

He was not the only one who came often to this place; frequently would he spy a lovely young lass, golden of hair and clad in green, dancing merrily before the majestic waters, but she always fled upon his approach, no doubt frightened away by the darkness which clung about him like a second skin. He did not care. Let her flee. Better that he be alone, his thoughts undisturbed by the lighthearted capering of a mere girl. Rare were his moments of peace and he would not have them intruded upon; and certainly not by a capricious female. Yes . . . Better that she flee from him, leaving him to dwell upon times gone by in solitude.

Without sparing another thought for the fey lass Valireau leapt agilely atop a large pile of rocks which lined the western side of the waterfall - his favorite spot. There the cool waters flowed over him like a refreshing shower, washing away his misery if only for a moment. As the invigorating spray of water poured over him, soaking his long silver hair and streaming down his bared chest, Valireau recalled a time when he had bathed beneath a different waterfall . . . So many years had passed since last he laid eyes upon his home of old, yet he could remember it well. How glorious were those ancient gardens, long since fallen into ruin, with their shining, silver willows whose branches swayed and danced to the sweet singing of Émilienne as she serenaded them. He could see them yet, so clearly, the flowers . . . Émilienne's heart, her pride and joy; blossoms of every color imaginable blooming across the emerald grass, covering the Garden floor like a blanket and filling the air with their rich, hypnotic fragrance. With perfect clarity he recalled the spirits who dwelled therein and the way they had laughed and danced, flitting merrily beneath the golden boughs of the trees in their play, so joyous and carefree. And the waters . . . ! Ai, how their memory brought a pang of melancholy to his heart, even now . . . So beautiful were the waters of that most ancient of gardens; crystalline and clear, shimmering with the reflected light of the heavens in all their glory. Indeed, so brilliantly did they shine that to Valireau it had always seemed as though the very heavens had descended upon the earth, eager to behold the wonders of the garden for themselves.

Was she there? Did a part of her dance still within that blessed place, beneath the Garden trees, singing for him? Did she wait for him there? Oh, how the memory made his heart ache. How glorious she had been, his beloved Émilienne, within that most cherished of places. Yet all the beauty of the world was made dull in the light of her radiance, so beautiful was she that surely even the Gods wept to behold her. ''Ai, benevolent Twelve,'' Valireau silently prayed, ''if thou wouldst yet grant kindness upon one as tainted and unworthy as I, please . . . Let her wait for me still. Let she who is mine own heart and soul wait for me until I am made whole once again, until the day the Shadow doth be cleansed from me and I am at long last worthy of her. Let her not be lost, beyond my reach or ken, for surely there is chance yet for salvation.''

Did the Twelve hear his desperate plea? Would they answer the prayers of one as tainted as he? May it be so . . .

As the waters beat down upon him, soothing him and easing his torment, Valireau's mind drifted to thoughts of the corruption which stained his soul. This taint was not of his own will, for never would he submit willingly to the Shadow no matter how great the agony of his resistance. He would never yield.

Did she curse him? Was there yet any lingering trace of the woman he had known, or was she lost to the madness? ''Please, let it be not so,'' Valireau silently pleaded, ''Do not let me be forsaken . . .'' He could remember it all so clearly, that terrible day when his world had fallen into shadow and despair. Had she forgiven him for what he had had to do? He could feel her there, but amidst the many wails and cries which resounded inside of him he could no longer discern her voice from the rest. Had the insanity subsided? Was she his Émilienne again? Or had all that she once was been utterly devoured? Was she Émilienne no more? No! Surely it was not so. Surely she remained yet. He would find a way to spare her soul, if nothing else.

There had to be a way . . . He had but to find it. And he would. If it took him an eternity and stole the breath from his lungs, he would find it. All he need do was remember that beloved face as she had been and his resolve became stronger than ever. He would not fail again.

His sorrow eased at last by the fire of determination, his self-loathing fading in the light of Émilienne’s memory, Valireau smiled up at the heavens as the cool water washed over his noble countenance. His soul felt more at peace than it had in ages, the heavy burdens which bore him down seeming lighter. When the day finally came for him to fade from this world surely she would be there to welcome him with open arms and at last his sorrows would be no more.

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Tainted Soul

Darkness. It seemed to pervade everything. Even in the light of day it was there, ever lurking, for was it not true that the brighter the light the deeper the shadow? All was cloaked in gloom; the very trees were as pillars of darkness. No stars shone on this night, there was not the slightest remnant of light to ease his tormented heart. What he would not give for but a glimpse of the blessed light, for just the smallest glimmer of a moonbeam to remind him that all was not lost. At times such as this the struggle against his inner corruption was nearly unbearable; ever did it follow him, taunting him, seducing him. Its inviting call beckoned to him, its whisper hypnotic and captivating. So sweet was the sound, the music of the Shadow.

No! Down that path lay only madness and sorrow. He would not give in to it, he would not succumb. Always did the screams echo in his mind like a torrent, beguiling, driving him to the brink of insanity. Were they his own? No . . . Not his own, for no matter the pain, no matter the torture, never would he grant his captives the gift of his cries. Let their blades pierce his flesh, let their creeping tendrils of madness invade his mind, he would not give in. Never let it be said that he surrendered.

. . .

The screams . . . They were loudest at night, when darkness reigned. How long had it been since he had escaped that pit of despair? How long since his very soul had nearly been devoured by the Shadow?

. . .

How long had it been since last he felt her loving embrace?

So many years. Too many to recount.

Too many to bear.

Valireau roamed silently through the secluded wood, his long flowing hair as pale and luminous as the silver rays of the moon, shimmering brilliantly with what light it had captured from the day. So graceful were his steps, so beautiful his form, that to the unwitting traveler he must appear as a spirit of the aether, cold and glorious to behold. Yet no benevolent spirit was he, but a creature altogether alien. He belonged nowhere. With his sharp, exotic features, too fair for any Hyur, one might mistake him for a member of the Elezen - oh, how he longed to be nothing more than a mere Elezen once more - yet such was not his nature.

As he made his way through the quiet wood Valireau spied the clear, faint gleam of flowing water. Water. Such a soothing element, so pure and mysterious. Ever had he adored the water, though his own spirit was more driven towards the raging flames that lied at the heart of the world. Perhaps that was why he felt so drawn to water, for it calmed him, tempering the fire that burned within his heart. Without thinking, without making the conscious decision, Valireau felt himself being drawn to the inviting currents, eager to feel their soothing embrace. He could hear the gentle sound of the ripples as the river, for river it was, wound its way eastward, its soft gurgle sweeter than the fairest of harps.

Peering down in to the crystalline depths the somber warrior was saddened by the reflection which greeted him on the water's surface. His was a handsome visage, even amongst the Elezen, with soft lips of a delicate curve, high cheekbones that were complemented by a dignified brow and strong, proud jawline. His lashes were long enough to inspire envy even in maidens and, unlike his hair, glittered with a lustrous ebon hue; as dark as though they had been kissed by the night sky. Exceptionally handsome indeed, yet no less unsettling despite his physical beauty. It was his eyes. No normal shade was his fathomless stare, for it shone with an unearthly light. Colder than frost yet brighter than the stars; within those striking white orbs there swirled lights of every hue imaginable, as though they had drawn the light into their fathomless depths and captured it, holding it hostage.

So long ago . . . He could still remember a time when once his eyes shone blue and his skin had been fair. He had held her in his arms, then. It felt as though an eternity now separated him from all that he once held dear; so great was the burden of all those countless years that it threatened to crush him under its oppressive weight. Had he truly fallen so far? What more was left for him in this world and why did he choose to linger? There was naught binding him to this world, naught for which he might be compelled to remain. So, why? Why did he choose to wander alone, tainted and tormented, when he might find solace in the chilling grip of oblivion? Was oblivion even possible for one such as he?

Perhaps it was she, for though his love had been cruelly stolen from him he could still feel her presence. She was there in the soft caress of a morning's breeze, in the sweet fragrance of a flower . . . in the gentle kiss of a light summer's rain. How her memory haunted him. How it made his heart ache with a pain beyond any torment he had ever endured. How could he bear to leave when memory was all he had left of her? She was here, the very air sang with her. If he listened closely he could even hear the hypnotic call of her voice, for she had so loved to sing to the trees and the flowers.

"I failed her . . . I watched her be torn asunder before mine own eyes with naught I could do to save her," he whispered, unaware that he had given voice to his thoughts.

Failed. He had failed her. How could he face her now? How could he face any of those whom he had failed to protect? Was it forgiveness he sought, or redemption? Could such a thing even be granted to one such as he?

Valireau rose to depart from the gently flowing river, no longer wishing to gaze upon that hated reflection when, like a beacon, the first golden rays of the morning sun began to shine through the delicate emerald leaves of the wood as it made its ascent into the heavens. It was time to move on.