Varlarsaga Volume 3 - Consolation

Epilogue.

A whole new world, marvelled Minca as she stood, her arms linked within those of her husband to be Mendor and her once-upon-a-time suitor Mysingir, whilst they gazed out at eventide to an earth no longer Varlar, so much was it altered. "Hey! I think it can be a grand place, if peace is sown instead of war. Then we'll have a new age, a First Age of a new world. I wonder what those of great import will name it?"

Mysingir, mended for the most from many wounds of mind and body, smiled and kissed his old-love's cheek.
"Who knows? That behind is behind; Varlar, now left behind. Somewhere in the future lies a world that is right, if we and those who set forth to people it, can make it right."

"A world left behind. A world to make right. And we are in the middle hey!" laughed Minca.

"Aye", said Silval Birdwing as he and Elvra appeared, to stand close by the others. "Yet think it not that simple. We will all travel to places; future places unknown to any of us, where we shall encounter suffering, mayhap that be left. Even if it is not, sooner or later it will arise again and then we must learn from it, learn compassion. Remember, try as hard as you may, it will not be possible to help everyone you meet. Perhaps you may only be able to suffer with them, for them." The Birdwing drew Elvra nearer to him, and in the doing each there had comfort from their past wounds.

Then the Huntress said, "Leaf is turned from yellow. No longer fallow are the fields. And after Varlar's fall, we are caught up in this new, this Middle-Earth."

Together then with those of Men, they watched and dreamed as the sun blinked and was gone below the world's west rim.

 

 

Many things were said and told and asked, during the nights that followed. Many the debates amongst the great that bided safe within the Taiga where Varlar-Fall had not scathed them. Whilst outside, the earth seemed only a ruin of its former self.

Of those wise and learned, were the three Morrigi: Moth, Toad and Wolf, and numbered there were Aneurin Foamhair, Queen Goldal of all the Elves, Belda, Ordrick and Orsokon, Prince Nolar of the Daræ, Bel-Thalion of Nolvæ folk and Menkeepir the High-Lord of Men. And these, all these, talked of what had passed and what might come of it. Of Corin, spake they long and sadly.

And during those times, instead of the Familiars, there sat in their places three of the four Witches: Clothyl, Lorgris and Ergris. Yet though Those mighty Sorceresses, The Unravellers, could speak of what had been, of how Corin had served the purposes of Good to the best well-being of the world, They could not tell further. He had passed into The Blackness beyond even Their knowledge, as had Hagris in Her form of Bili Jackdaw.

Wolf Bozkirt was the last to have seen them, where he stood alone on the western sea-edge. That Corin had pursued his evil foe out into the ocean They knew. But what after came of it, none could say. Bozkirt himself, had set off to find the wounded dragon Sgnarli, and it was on those slowly fading wings that the Wolf and the surviving Elves had come to the Taiga, whilst Varlar trembled before the onslaught of The World-Serpent's upheaval. Corin and Hagris the Shape Changer who, as Bili Jackdaw, had been his guide, his Voice, his sign and inner spirit, had both vanished from sight as if they had never been.

Yet one revelation that none but The Morrigi and M'Boabdil of the Taiga knew, came to light. And it was a consolation and a confirmation to each and any whose path had ever crossed Corin's. This secret had been kept, hidden to all others, from prying eyes and ears and senses beyond those of sight and sound, over the long ages since World Lord Valandir had fallen, locked together with Sköl, into Earth-Eye.

And it was told by They who had kept the truth in silence through those ages that Corin was indeed the offspring of Valandir the Drotnar and Ny´æ, she who had wrought The Stone of Remorse; left as mark and map, history and portent of Varlar's end, upon the western shores. She who had languished long, bemoaning Valandir's fate, until finally sailing out into the waters where Those before Her had sailed. She, who had given birth to a child, whilst floating the dreamy-tide within call of Erebos where They, who lived no longer in Varlar's bounds, dwelt beyond the sun-risen west. She, whom Hagris as Bili Jackdaw, winging over ocean's bosom, came upon to plead an awesome boon; the release of that child into the custody of The Morrigi. She, who ventured on, last and alone; bereft of babe, yet hope-filled that some day, He might set free Her Lord from fetters beyond any other to break. And Her child, child of Ny´æ and Valandir, was brought back to sleep a sea-drowned sleep, hidden deep within Taiga's borders; guarded and watched over by M'Boabdil the Forest-Breath, until such time seemed ripe.

That time came for The Morrigi, when Forinth the Fisherman pushed into the sunlight the casket which held Loriandir's babe; Her Corin, whom She had long cried over, in vain.

Thenceforth the two motherless waifs were united within the Taiga, until the span of Erryldene's rule in Ravenmoor. And there, was a child left with the King at the moment of his wife's own still-born. Yet that babe was not Loriandir's Corin, as Those Evil Powers were meant to believe, but the child of Ny´æ and Valandir; and within it lay the seed of the strength that was to grow, in the passing of the years, nurtured by both Good and Evil, to earth's ultimate salvation. For though Varlar, as it had been through all past ages, was turned and destroyed: seas rolled back, bones of mountain-spines broken, the drowned deserts of the ocean's floors cast up naked to the skies, vast forests toppled or buried deep, the earth had survived so that those huddled within its recesses might again creep timidly forth, filled with wonder at the almighty changes.

And for that, much thanks was due to Corin, The One Master.

 

Eventually, the days grew longer and the seasons rounded to what they should. Winter blended into milder clime. And at last, spring bloomed and blossoms opened. Trees, long seeming dead, budded. Grass, once withered, greened anew. And life vigorously sprang again.

In the Taiga, creatures flourished. Lo though, there was heart-ache; since such is life, and death.

At whiles of Taiga-dwelling Menkeepir, Lord and Shepherd of Men, laid himself down, for he knew that he was dying. "On day's end I shall look, as with a child's eye." Thus spake he in dignity, as a last breath, fading gently, parted him from those things mortal. So young was he, the rose about his cheek, his elder years far from spent. But yet he passed the bounds of those who would stay him from that path, and there was nought to be done that might have halted his parting.

The time came and his brothers laid him to grave, whilst all mourned his leave-taking. And they put him into soil where a tall tree had toppled, fallen in its prime, as seemed right and proper for this short-lived, noble, simple man. And they heaped him with things he loved. And raised they the sweet, clean mound, that later grassy-grew above his head. And weeping, Mysingir made a dirge for him as he packed the turves, whilst the many milled about on that spring-chilled morn.

So, he comes at last unto the end. His life is finished now.
His arms lie still. His back be stiff.
His legs have walked their final paces. And he has fallen, in life's traces.
In childhood saw him, stand the Tree and eagerly embraced it.
He set his fingers to the bark and deep within he harked Its heart.
And ran his hands o'er Its hide and touched the sturdy, lace-work roots;
sunk down, that It might earth bestride.
A longing welled within his breast, to test that Tree and best It,
to climb Its skin and see the sky.
So he began, a callow youth, he clamb.
And reaching first the lower limbs he tarried there at whiles, and heard the leaves about him sing.
And in them wind came trembling, as he in Life's Tree grew.
On and up and through the branches, many patterned, ever changing, his questing feet he thrust.
Seeking there that far-off summit, ere he be wrought again to dust.
The veins stood out upon his wrists, the sinews cracked within his thighs.
The Tree itself, grew older too, and there inside, he gleaned Its sighs.
Birds were chirping down below. In youthful age he passed them.

"Wither now way, must I go, 'fore dotage?" he had asked them.
"Near the summit, are you now. Straight on up, you go.
Yet bear in mind, the further up, the further down below."
Heeding not, he onward went and to the top afar, he climbed at last and saw the sky,
and glimpsed a glimmering star.
The dawn came shrieking on the wind, the star went out.
He looked about and saw the Tree; hoary-old and withered.
He looked within and saw himself, and inwardly he shivered.
For he was marked by Life's cruel fate, Its follies and Its pitfalls.

Now, like the stricken trunk of Tree, he plummets down, as It falls.
The yawning hole, where root and bole of Life's-Tree once had sprung,
leaps up to take him; for this great Tree, torn from whence It clung
in earth's fair breast, unto Its rest, tumbling down, is come.
And he, a noble man of peace, the earth into, receives.
The Tree of Life lies by root-spring, death seeping through Its leaves.
A single bird sits on shorn bough; and songless now, it grieves.

Most wept that day, and none more than the two remaining brothers. It seemed such a hard fate for a man who, though gentle and even weak in ways, had done all within him to see his own folk, and indeed every creature possible, to safe haven.

"What killed him, do you think?" asked Mendor of his brother.

For answer, Mysingir rubbed at the scars of battle that had matured him from youth to someone entirely different, someone worldly-sore, older, wiser, able now to see beyond his own wants; able to abide and bless the love that had united Mendor and Minca, able to overcome the horror that had maddened his mind. Able to look, unclouded, back upon his dear, doomed brother Menkeepir. "It seems to me that he lived for, and died at the end of, his quest. That was fulfilled, and he played the part that he was born to play; perhaps even as Master Corin did."

Mendor nodded, pouring wine. "Aye. Think me, that you are right. Both did their appointed lot, and both are gone. Yet you and I will miss Menkeepir; flesh of our flesh. Here, take up a cup of redness yet, for the sake of old, long memory."

And to this, as they raised their goblets and Brôga downed a tub of the same stuff, Mysingir, as if in a dream, added these final words.

"Beneath the trunk of that great Tree, where once he saw the sky,
he sleeps the gentle sleep of death and list's earth's secret cry;
the strain that comes forever more, of doom that is ordained,
that he who climbs The Tree of Life, must pass when ere It passes,
and there remain his last remains, beneath the wailing grasses."


And so of Menkeepir, there was come an end.

Unjust? Perhaps, might it be said. Yet there are those, it seems, through all world's long history, who embark upon a chosen path; chosen by them, or for them, who can tell? Maybe the hand of destiny touches them, draws them on to goals both greater and lesser; goals magnificent and shot deep with heart-ache. Such is the mysterious woven wonder, the Warp and Weft of life.



Still, in that time of waiting, whilst the new world mended itself, good things came to be.

One of moment, was the birth of a babe from uncommon union, that of Pecht and Pent. Bilfren Bonnyface the Pixie was the mother and Hoobin of the Rî-mer-Rī small folk, the father. And this was a matter for delight and rejoicing since it had never before occurred. And though the tiny maid-child seemed somewhat strange from the outset; tangled locks about her brow and, queerer still, upon her feet, the proud parents cared not. For in fact, the coming of any new life amongst the Elloræ or their kin was rare.

And there was another union, as strange again in its own way; though in the vast plan of things, rightful. And that was between the Lady Qwilla, Cwēn of Rî-mer-Rī, and King Ordrick from vanished Ravenmoor. Thusly were the long diverged lines of those sundered peoples, who had fled a ravaged land and crossed an unknown water to be lost from one another over many generations, brought together once again; as was most fitting. Indeed this women, some years older than the youthful Ordrick, was still in her flower's bloom; much the more she saw of him. And he, matured beyond his age, complimented her grace and simple charm. Together, they made a fine couple, wherein lay the strengths of both their peoples. So, as newly attracted lovers do, they made their future plans whilst Belda, once the Queen of Ravenmoor, watched their trysting and trothing and wept the silent tears of remembrance. But her tears were not of sorrow. They were joy-filled for this sun-brown woman; child of child of child of her own kin and this young king, son of Arleas; Belda's own husband's brother.

And if Ordrick had any regret, might it have been that his mother and father could not have seen his great good fortune or that the rightful King, Mylor, he whom Ordrick had wronged in their childhood and who was now lost to them all, could not be part of the time to come. For Ordrick realised, as so many others had then, the suffering and sacrifice of Corin's life and passing. But though these shadows darkened the margins of his thinking he took heart, since his was to begin again another kingdom, somewhere to found, and he had the love of this noble, rustic Lady, to nurture and to keep as long as breath was in him. Fitting too, was it that Possum Wollert came to them and pledged the friendship of his folk; those selfsame descendants of warlike peoples who had forced Ordrick's forebears into the sea, and set in motion the ill-starred migration of Bran refugees. So came together those several peoples that they might fuse in harmony as one. And Ordrick granted Wollert a Principality, wherever on earth that might be, so that long ere they went forth, he was already known to all as Prince Possum.



Joy, in that summer of the Taiga, came as a blinding flash that melted even the hardest dwarf-heart, warming and touching the rough and the homely alike. There were meetings and reunions amongst the diminutive and the cumbersome: Dalen the Pecht and Argal of the wild Tumberimber sheep, Brôga the Ogre and his soft-furry-thing Bim, of whom he had become extremely fond.

Many were the introductions of new folk and occasionally these arrived unexpectedly. On a day, whilst most were still a-bed, Bozkirt, Moth and Bufo came to the milk-white horses of the Elves, there seeking Cornarian and his mare Eiravar and Ebolian, their full-grown offspring.

Into deep forest the Morrigi bade them follow, where few feet had trod before, and far the horses roamed until they came upon an open space at the foot of treed hills and there was M'Boabdil, Spirit of the Taiga, perched like a multi-coloured finch astride a majestic black horse; the Master of world's Equine, Shar-Pædon, Sire of Darkelfari. Then, at a bird-trill from M'Boabdil, out from the screening trees trotted two others: the first was Shar-Pædon's Lady-mare Silili, Dam of Dams. The second was their new-thrown foal, a coal-black fellow on wobbly legs; the gangling next born of these two magnificent creatures. And this foal was the brother to Darkelfari; faithful steed and companion, whom Corin had loved, and who had borne Valandir World-Lord down into the underworld realm of His new domain.

So there these noble animals were come and met, under the knowing eyes of Wolf, Toad, and Moth; whilst M'Boabdil danced the glade, squirrels running between his legs and robins lighting on his arms as he capered. And it was a merry meeting of these, the highest of horses. And they hardly seemed to notice as the paling leaves began to shed, for the sun still shone in that happy place; but autumnal, wore the haven of the Taiga.



Yet Elves and Men saw this and were suddenly made aware of the season's changing and of their own perceptible alteration. For the days dwindled on, and Men grew weary of their confines, longing for the untrod paths of the new world.

The Elloræ hungered after such as well, but for different reasons: for as men wanted homes and the founding of towns, pastoral tillage and the fortresses to guard such, Elves desired the wilds of deep forests and the quiet haunts of dell and glen and rolling downs where they might delight in renewal, hidden from toil and tragedy. And it seemed that all these peoples grew uneasy and restless, as if crowding each other, jostling together.

Men began again to covet that which they considered the bounty of the earth: the flesh of beast, of bird, of fish in the waters, and the Elloræ marked this with disdain. For a brief time, Elves and Men and Dwarves had bided in mutual reliance, but now that interval was fading.

As Farinmail the Zwerge sagely commented, Dwarves revere the bones of the Earth. Men, their ancestors and themselves. Elves, the sun and moon and stars. These are the elements; parts of the one great worship of life. But they are not the same, as are not these separate peoples.



In the twilight of Taiga's summer, it was decided that all should take their respective ways before enmity arose between them and the alliance of these various folk fail altogether. And though it was deemed that this was right to do, there were many individual partings filled with sadness; since love and friendship may transcend even the boundaries of size and race, colour and belief.

The last act of kindness between the Free-Folk was the ferrying down that falling river, which led from Taiga's lowering lake, out beneath the tall mountains into New-World. Aneurin Foamhair's craft bore them away: Elves, Men, Dwarves and animal-kind, depositing them on unweathered shores; strange never-before-seen shores, for everything had altered and nothing was as before.

And thereafter, in that unknown wilderness of tumbled grandeur, the final words were spoken.

"It is best we part this way, oh folk of Man and Zwerge", said Queen Goldal. "You will ride and walk forth and we will set sail, to see what this new age holds in store. For a time, Ellor Home shall be the sea and wherever that might lead us. Let us pray that the Serpent of the World has passed away with the passing of Varlar, and that Earth be born anew, into this coming age."

"What then do you guess of the future, dear Elloræ Lady?" asked Belda.

Goldal smiled and took Belda's hand in hers. "The story never ends, whilst there is someone left to take up the tale. The deeds of now will become the stories of the future and those tales will be passed on into lore and legend, thence to become faint memory, all but forgotten. That is the way of life and of living. So too, the peoples of now will be forgotten; or at best remembered as if in a dream of Men. Much, even as we think of Those come before us, who have long since departed."

"And what of Men?" Mysingir questioned. "What shall become of them?"

Sighing, Aneurin Sea-Master answered, "They will crumble to dust, ever and again. Yet they will grow up anew like the grass. They shall have their time and it will be long; though maybe that time is far-off still, when others are no more. And after Men, I do not know. But when their age ends, I deem it will be they who cause their own downfall. For Men are their own inner danger, and their foolhardy ways may outlast even the bravest hopes and noblest dreams of their greatest. Or so my heart tells me. Still, one day before then guess I, their banners will flood the world and for a while their dominion will rule all."

To this, Silval gravely added, "Do not think that this New World will have no end. Long may it be, beginning to finish. Elves know this. Men must learn such. Yet this earth began, and so must a conclusion come to it. Not Men, not even the Elloræ, may gainsay that."



Then was an end come to the alliance of Elloræ, Zwerge, Men and those of Bird and Animal Kingdom; and they parted, never to be gathered thus closely again.


Brôga was the first to go his own solitary path, yet he pledged that he would seek out men such as Mendor, Ordrick and Orsokon in the future, if they would greet him with the good, blood-wine that he so relished. Dalen and Bim the cat were last to say their goodbyes to this rough brute before he lumbered off. And it was seen that the hulking ogre, himself, shed a great, rolling tear at that leave-taking.

For a while Dwarves and Men travelled in company, until they too reached the feet of stark ridges that led to the uplifted, unknown mountains of the west, where these now stood in anonymous majesty. There Farinmail, the Dwarf leader, said farewell to Men; for he and his Zwerge-kin were earthward bound, to sound the deeps and, maybe, to begin a new colony. In his own gruff way he thanked them, but his words were tinged with grief, for he was not unmindful of the fate befallen his King, Elbegast, and those others who had remained in Zwerge Drysfa. Now however it fell to him to take up the Kingship, that his followers should have a leader both daring and resourceful, yet one tempered by events of the past.

Thus, when he and his Dwarf people chose to halt at a place suitable, his parting words to Men were simple. "Stones and streams and trees will come a'right, to be the same. But woe betide any who rend them otherwise. This is the word, the pledge, and the warning of the Zwerge."

So, Men passed on westward to the distant risen peaks and, coming into those heights, turned a final time eastaways. And they saw a far country that stretched toward the crumbled towers of hope that had once been the bastions of the Taiga. And they saw a glittering sea, spread o'er, like a pond strewn with flower petals. Though in truth these were Elloræ ships, sailing out into time and fate. And saw Men, as a vision in their own minds, Aneurin Foamhair and Alluin Fairlady, standing tall and regal at Dolphin ship helm, and proud, unbowed Queen Goldal beside them. And in this vision, Men saw Elvra Huntress and Silval Birdwing; their hurts of mind and body healed. And Bel-Thalion of the Nolvæ, holding his beautiful Nivri-Allon close to him, and Loriandir the Fane, after all her nether-world toils, cradling her child of Themion; her Corin. And Men saw the Daræ Blackelves, Prince Nolar and Chaliandra, survivors of the Abyss. And the Booca, those mild, shy, beast-herd Brownies, husbanding their bees and birds and all living creatures into the future seasons. And they saw the Pechts, Prince Clovell's pixies, streaming along the decks and aloft the riggings like nut-gathering squirrels.

With but one exception, Dalen.

For it came to Men, in their misted sight, that both Dalen the Pixie and Bim the Cat wept unto themselves, if it can be said that cats weep; yet in each other maybe, there was solace. But even if there was, it did not stem their tears. They wept for many things at once you see: for Elfame and Morgan Seawanderer, for lost lives of every race; for the lost world of Varlar, they wept. And for Corin, the One Master, they wept the most whilst the waters carried them toward the unknown and the mind's eyes of Men dimmed them from sight.



Then at twilight, as if a low-lying star had sparked a single glint, Men spied such fleeting glimmer. They could not have known it, for dark was already crowding the eastward sea, but this was a glimpse of that precious, perilous substance named Orichalc. Far away it beat and pulsed upon the breast of she, Talisar the Daræ; maker of that necklet, who stood alone in the bow of the last ship to sail from the Taiga. She stood alone and her tears wetted the jewel that she had crafted, so that it shone with the paleness of moon and star: white, bright, hopeful, close; yet as if a being unto itself, unattainable. So exactly, as Talisar's love for The One Master, Corin.



The men and women upon that distant hill's side turned to each other for warmth and inner strength. They could not have even guessed at what they had been given, and lost without thought. Through their fingers had slipped a gift, The Gift; greater than they could grasp and hold and contain. The Gift, without which, they should never again attain a closeness, that briefly they had held with all other living creatures. That Gift of peace and love and compatibility was gone and would not be offered again, so long as Men dwelt in the world. Without understanding, Men had estranged themselves; parted from Elves and from every creature that might have welcomed their strengths and abilities and arts.

Instead Mankind had chosen a lonely, a solitary, road. A way that would lead them through the tremblings of time; surviving for the continuance of their Race, yet distrusted, feared and hated by those who were once allies and might very well have remained as brother-kin.



"Our long works are over", boomed Bufo Toad.

"For this time", nodded Wolf Bozkirt.

"And of our fourth, Hagris-Bili?" asked Moth.

"Gone. Lost to You, lamented M'Boabdil. Gone, as the leaves are fallen and blown away."

"And Valandir's child?"

"He too is vanished with Hagris; beyond the Shadow. None of Us can see further."

"Yet through Him, the world is saved."

"Saved, but not unchanged. Though without Him, World would not be. Instead, Varlar would have rolled into chaos; tumbled into ruin and, ultimately, destruction. It is well that this much has been averted."

"And whither We now?"

"Whither? Wherever need takes Us. For whilst We exist, it is Our role to be The Unravellers and The Guardians. We have Our calling and Our task until such time as We are drawn beyond The Shadow, or given leave to return Home."

M'Boabdil stirred and rose from His grassy bed. "Come Wolf, let me ride upon Thee, Moth and Toad bearing with me. The Taiga here lies dying and on Our road already, new-world's lot is flying..."



And with the passing of those Four, the Taiga drifted into winter; barren and wasted.



A cold north wind lanced through the emptiness that had once been the refuge of the Taiga. Autumn was ebbing, blowing its yellowed leaves toward winter; the first true winter of another age. The pale sun, faint now behind cloudy veils that sombrely wreathed it, hunched across the sky like an old pilgrim, turned back from Her wanderings; destined to spend Her days, seeking whence She had come from out of the west.

The grass rattled as the breezes waved, ebbing and rising through sword-stems, mourning over the sighing vales. Trees on the distant hills drooped, as if cowered by the grim season looming at their backs. The silent waterways, whose ripples were as shivers, seemed to await the cold that would freeze them until birds shunned their company. Indeed all birds had passed away, long before, to seek some place of warmth beyond the melancholy of the Taiga.



Upon the side of a hill where stood the risen mound of one buried and forsaken, there was a burrow about which stalked gorse and blackberry, creeping and entwining. And in its entrance, there crouched a pair of rabbits. They were far aged for conies and had had many, many kits; all of whom had moved away, abandoning the Taiga, to set forth into the big, big world beyond.

However these two, limb-tired, ear-drooped and greying from their youthful whiteness, had chosen to remain together and alone of every living creature that dwelt therein, to see out the last days. Through their lives, from long forgotten birth to this moment, both had lived on, and in the Taiga. They understood little more than a sniff of it but that did not matter; not when they were born of it, of the soil wherein rested their forerabbits. Yet this moment of the world was to change these two; this old, squinty-eyed dad-buck and this dear, fur-worn bunney-mum. In the wind-swept hollow of their front doorstep they tarried, as was their wont. Looking out into the past, they needed little more; only to forage now and then for food or sip of water. But more and more, sleep overcame them, and other things seemed less important.

Now they peered into the middle-noon and, far off, caught a glimmer of something; a faint movement where none should have been, not tree, not even swaying shrub, certainly not another living creature. Yet the more they screwed up those carrot-thriven eyes, now cataract-filled, the more it seemed to them that something was coming, slowly, deliberately, toward them; coming up their hill, to rabbit-home. Their sense of smell, far sharper than their failing sight, came into play, seeking out what strange manner of animal this might be. And it seemed at first a creature of four legs, though unlike any four-legged animal they could ever recall. To their eyes the thing wavered in and out of the light, shimmering like reflected images in the heat of day. Yet there was no heat of day. Then, the approaching movement resolved itself into a single being; a two-footed thing, all covered in blackness, smothered in long, flowing fur that dangled from round its mouth. And it seemed to them to be like, and unlike, the elves and the men who had come to the Taiga for a time, and thence departed as the land withered.

But it was not a Man, nor was it an Elf. It was something else, menacing in its blackness. And now, beneath the cowling about its head, the old coney pair glimpsed a baleful stare of eyes, red-rimmed and hooded; the eyes of the serpent. The hearts of the rabbits began to hammer, their breath came in tiny puffs of fear. They were fixed, powerless; fascinated by the eyes and the fear, the Mighty Fear, of a thing beyond all their tiny comprehension. This was death. This was their end. This thing had come for them in all its terror, and they were to fall, their lives blazing out in one swift blink.

The baleful eyes regarded them, chilling their frail bones to the very marrow.

And then...

And then there was a sudden burst of light, a brilliance that blinded the rabbits for a moment, though when their blindness passed and their failing sight was restored, they beheld those terrible eyes no more. Instead, the eyes were now filled with many hues and highlights of all colours. And they were benevolent in their gaze, at once gentle and saddened and world wearied.


The One Master knelt upon the withering grass and his eyes brimmed with tears as he slowly read aloud the inscription carved upon a stone that lay at hill crest.

Here sleeps the Saviour of Men. The Pathfinder, The Shepherd. He, who brought his flock to penfold. He, who sought, that the seeds might survive; that they might fruit again in fresh soil, at the dawning of a new sun, in a new world. Here sleeps he, lain to earth by his Brothers and by all, Men and Elves, together. Here, sleeps Menkeepir.

A time went by. A time that slowly engulfed his grief, so that he was come again unto himself where he rested, cradling the bird Bili Jackdaw, now revealed in his upturned palms.

"Dear folk of the Taiga, he said turning, weeping, to the old rabbit pair who watched him in silence. Will you both grant me a wish? Come with me. Give up your home. For the Taiga is faded away and the World is changed. Come with me. Let me leave this small bird to rest where you have dwelt, for he needs a place to lie, and none better could that be than on this hill; your home, where now is raised the mound of Man."

And to him, the old rabbit pair came. And he laid hand to them, touched them both in more ways than can be told. And it seemed that a mist fell away from their eyes, that they could see again, that their limbs were lightened. Then were they glad to go with him, whither he might take them; for the desire to live was once more upon them. And so he laid the bird to rest in the earth of rabbit-burrow and covered it over, at the foot of Menkeepir's barrow.

Would you have desired more than this? he asked of Bili. You who gave everything to me. You who gave yourself, that I might survive. You who, even in death, yet guided me hither; through the lanes of misery and sorrow. Of World-Fate, you were part. And you Jackdaw, Hagris of the Morrigi, have played that part. May you rest now. And may you know that your gift to me was not in vain.


So thereafter his words, he took his leave of that place. And he took with him, in his arms, the only two living left in that wild and overgrowing land. Together, he and the rabbits went down the hill toward the wandering Lady of the Sky where She dwindled westward. And as he walked, holding close those two, wondrous living creatures, he sang a forgotten song of his yesteryears.

Through the window I see the sea and the wide, wide world that forever be.
Through the window and out the door the road, unfurled, to the briny mor.
Out the door to the wide, wide world, the road flows on to the mountains hurled,
and the painted sky runs with painted rain to the forests green on my window pane.
And across the glass flies swift, the swift, to the edge of day and the grey cloud drift.
And the dawn hauls on, and the sky is full. And the stars are gone, and the rain is cruel.
And the world rolls round, as it always goes. As the grist is ground from the millet, flows.
And our lives are bound to the growing grass, and the days flow on and the shadows pass.
Oh, the Song of Life is a Song of Doom, and the seasons short, fleet across my room.
And through my window I see the sea, and the wide, wide world that forever be


Thence passed the One Master from this tale, as his thoughts and love moved him toward the Daræ maiden Talisar, wherever she might be. Though he well knew of the labour that stood as a mountain betwixt him and her, that was above all his abilities to alter.

And he turned from the high hill bearing the living with him and leaving much behind. Yet he had not forgotten, not for an instant, his true name, his burden, the last thing breathed by Bili Jackdaw: Vindalf!

Vindalf the Black. Vindalf the One Master of The Nardred!


The End...

Here ends the matter of the Varlarsaga.

These works are drawn from the ancient library of Hrætia Minor.

The White Book, Escape, The Grey Book, Recovery, and The Brown Book, Consolation, make up the body of these writings.

The Black Book; Valediction, is yet to be translated.