Seriously, though, here's some of my novel. Well, not the novel per se, but rather a very shoddy rendition/summary of an important bit of history which will play a large role in at least a few main characters' personalities and actions. I plan to use a more polished rendition of this legend in my book itself as a sort of prologue, or introduction into the story. I say legend now because of course this version of history is obviously romanticized and important only to the heirs of Eitoken himself; most men at the time of my novel couldn't care less about Elves, ancient oaths, and anything like that. A main theme of my book is the nature of a story itself: What makes a story important? What makes it true? How important in deciding both is the simple act of believing? I love reading old histories like those of Tacitus and Herodotus, where the line between fact and fiction is beautifully blurred (we modern readers cannot always tell what parts of a story are true, and what are fantastical, often having to decide for ourselves what to believe), and therefore am extending that sort of mentality into my own novel, particularly in the character of Eifton, one of Eitoken's descendents. He fiercely believes in the old legend recounted below, even if no one else in the world does. And this belief strongly influences his behavior. To paraphrase one of my characters: "It is the custom now to wait and watch because the story tells us we must. But the story was only written so because to wait and watch was already our custom. There was a time when we created that story, Eifton; but now it creates us." Do men create stories, or do stories create men? Can a man decide whether to be creator or creation, or does he have no choice? This, I suppose, is the real heart of my novel. Anyway, I hope you enjoy even this brief and unpolished legend. I will post more of my novel periodically, but not too much, since I wish to keep it secure of course. Much more will be posted on the writing blog I set up, "The Radish Room".
(PS-Since this legend is currently written as reference for me more than in its final, novel-prologue style, it's probably going to be confusing. Lots of name-dropping, and a general feeling of in medias res. I'm very interested, however, in just how confusing it is, so I can know what information I should add in, and what I can leave out--keeping in mind that some things will be explained in detail in the first real chapters of the novel. So comment and let me know what you think! I'd really appreciate it ^_^)
It was in the waning, desperate years of the first war between Elf and Ieldra when the Elven princes Isfalor and Athelye sent out missives to the clans of men asking for aid in war, for they had always had most friendship with men since the days before the sun and moon. But many long years had passed since the days of Tor the Elf-friend, though no grey yet touched the hair of Isfalor called Fairest of the Edyire. Men had begun already to grow proud, and to name lands with new names as though for the first time, and to forget the deeds of their far fathers, and friendships made between the Elf-folk and their sires. So it was that the summons went unanswered, save only by one man.
He would be remembered as Eitoken, He Who Watches Always, and was at the time a only a poor man, though well liked in his clan, and the summons--borne by a rider dressed all in silver and red and with harness of red gold, who leapt as it were from the embers of the fires where stories were told to children about the Elven folk and their deeds--set his heart ablaze with desire to look upon the great war hosts of the Eldest race and to count himself among their number in the great conflict to come, and to see also for himself the faces of the lords of that host, who were older than the sun and moon, and yet not old to look upon. So when others would have bade the call no heed, he sprang to his feet and swore then his aid, and his enthusiasm caught in the hearts of many and shamed still more, so that with it was a force of nearly all his clan he came to the encampment. There he was brought into the presence of the three princes Athelye, Otiru, and Isfalor tallest of them all, and the King Arael their brother, and their sister the lady Mihrenna, who glittered in the lamplight like a withe of steel shot with starlight. They bade him courteous welcome, but it was Isfalor who was most pleased. And Eitoken was enchanted by the prince’s comeliness, spirit, and courtesy.
So Isfalor would have assigned Eitoken and his men to Otiru’s wing, as that was the weaker, but Eitoken spoke up in protest and said: “I serve thee, lord, and fight for thee, lord, and follow thee, lord, or not at all.” And the Elf’s captains looked with shock at the Man, surprised at this ragged, crude arrogance, and thought it ill of him to have such pride. Moreover, they were somewhat angered at the Man’s presumption to their lord. But Isfalor smiled, who smiled so seldom then, and answered “It shall be as you wish, son of Man,” and gave orders that some of his own soldiers should fight alongside Otiru, and for Eitoken to be, with his men, equipped and stationed among the Elves of his own force.
Battle came, and ever Isfalor was where the fighting was hottest, and the greatest assault was against his army, for the fear and the fury with which the Ieldrae held him who had been the first of the Elven people to know hate. And Isfalor and the warriors of Ehrunien suffered heavy losses, but wreaked havoc upon the enemy, and did not waver. Eitoken fought so he was close by Isfalor, and so saw when the prince’s horse was shot from beneath him, so that he fell--but he in falling leapt from the saddle so that his feet were not tangled in the harness, and so he avoided being crushed, though he did strike the ground. But Eitoken saw, and leapt forward to the prince’s defense, keeping the enemy back for the few moments it took for Isfalor to recover and get to his feet.
The Ieldrae ultimately were routed and fled, and routed most due to Isfalor. But many of his men were killed, and all save three of those who had followed Eitoken were dead. And Eitoken, exhausted with the long fighting, wrapped himself in his cloak and slept for two days.
It was then time for him to depart, but first Isfalor summoned him. And when he came, he saw the prince had done off his battle gear, though his hair was shorn always for battle, and he was richly attired in forest green and red gold. He greeted the man kindly, and with the honor due to a great friend. And he said, “You alone answered the summons, and ‘twas thou who swore to fight for my banner and none else. And well did you prove yourself to me, then upon the third day of the fight. Perhaps without your aid I would now be slain, and this but a little while ere the wedding of my sister. Accept my thanks.” And Eitoken bowed, bewildered and delighted, and said nothing. And then he said, haltingly: “I think you would not have died.” Isfalor looked and saw the child-faith and worship in the man’s eyes, and was silent a moment. Then he said: “You remind me of one I knew long ago”, as though speaking to himself. And then he took from his belt a slim stabbing-dirk of gold, brother to his own sword, and held it out to Eitoken, saying, “Take this as a sign of my favor, and of thy faith. And one day shall I call thee, and for the love for me which you bear and that gift of my regard which I have given to then, then do thou come, and we shall go forth to battle together once more, you and I. And thou shalt go upon my right hand like as a brother, man and elf, and there shall our glory be wrought, and none shall withstand us!”
And he gave then to Eitoken a little gift of land, at the the south-eastern border of the Elvare, and granted to him and all his heirs dominion over that dark wood, and safety from all its perils, that they might travel it and see its wonders which he had loved when he himself was young. And Eitoken took both dirk and land, and with those three faithful of his men and their wives he raised what would come to be known as the Mistkeep, and he and his heirs dwelt there forever, awaiting the summons.
It never came, for that battle was the last of Isfalor’s life, and not long after he would be slain in ambush by Iestol in the high passes of the Elvare. That deed spurred the Elven folk to so great a fury that they destroyed the Ieldrae in battle utterly save only those who retreated into the deepest tunnels of the Labyrinth their old home and hid there for many generations of men; this was the long peacetime between the two wars, and broken only when Calhui Eldrason, the halfblood child of Alinando Ieldra and Caerwen princess of the Elves, slew the Elven high king and stole the Crown from him to deliver it to his father’s people. And this second war wrought the ruin of the Elven people.
And all this time the Masters of Mistkeep remained in their quiet corner of the world, ever faithful to their charge, and ever waiting, for Isfalor the prince of Ehrunien was long dead, and no one else remembered the man Eitoken and the oath given to him.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Penny for your thoughts?