"I can grant you the ending you seek," Paul says, clearly, "and I will, if you ask me again. But hear me first, Lord of the andain."
He pauses, and when he goes on, his voice is surprisingly gentle -
- or not, perhaps, so surprisingly.
Kevin Laine, at least, might not have thought it so.
"Lisen has been dead this thousand years, but only today, when her Circlet blazed to the undoing of Maugrim, did her spirit pass to rest. So too has Amairgen's soul now been released from wandering at sea. Two sides of the triangle, Galadan. They are gone, finally, truly gone. But you live yet, and for all that you have done in bitterness and pride, you still heard the sound of Light in Owein's Horn."
He can feel the stillness, all eyes upon him. Some of them, he knows, will not believe that he is doing what he is. Some of them will blame him for it. It does not matter.
"Will you not surrender your pain, Lord of the andain? Give it over. Today has marked the very end of that old, sorrowful tale - will you not let it end? You heard the horn - there is a way back for you on this side of Night. Your father has come to be your guide. Will you not let him take you away and heal you and bring you back?"
And so it is that something within Galadan that had long been clenched tight, holding Lisen's face ever in the forefront of his mind, loosens its hold.
It brings nothing like relief, only pain.
There is a flicker of anguish across his face, and more than that. It is an old, old pain, ancient and unspoken for all these long thousand years.
"If only she had loved me! I might have shone so bright!"
And then he covers his eyes--and his pain--with his hands, and weeps.
Weaver on the Loom, but he weeps, tears enough to flood the plain, or so it seems.
They are the first tears the Wolflord of the andain has ever shed, heavy with old regrets, bitter betrayal, and salt.
If he were not so completely himself at this moment, Twiceborn and Schafer both - if he had not come into his power, at long last, he would be disturbed by the strength of the kinship he feels to the Wolflord.
But he is, and so he understands.
Behind him, he hears Ruana of the Paraiko and Ra-Tenniel, lord of the lios alfar, raise their voices in a harmony of lament.
Still Galadan weeps, though eventually all that long-held sorrow is released, and he raises his head, eyes dark hollows in his too-pale face.
All his attention seems to be on Paul, now, though in truth the majority of it rests with his father upon the hill.
Father.
"You would truly do this? Let me go from here?"
Hope and despair are at war in his voice, in his face, in his soul.
It is an old, old, battle, and only recently has hope even begun to edge toward the fray. It will be a long time yet before any can know which impulse might win.
"You said I was almost one of you, but you were wrong, Galadan."
He says it quietly, and with compassion. Being wrong: that, too, is something that Galadan will have to learn.
"The truth is, you were almost one of us, but you didn't know it then. You had put it too far behind you. Now you know, you have remembered. There has been more than enough killing today. Go home, unquiet spirit, and find healing. Then come back among us with the blessing of what you should always have been."
For a moment there is something almost bright in Galadan's eyes as he listens to Paul, as he absorbs all that the Twiceborn says, all the promise in his words.
His hands gradually relax at his sides as he nods, once.
Then, one hand over his heart, he bows, deep and graceful, much as his father once bowed, long ago and almost yesterday, to the Lord of the Summer Tree.
He turns toward that same father, steps slow and so careful as he moves through the circle of men he sought to kill only moments ago, and approaches Cernan, lord of the beasts.
The horned god watches him come, sunlight gilding both the grand figure and the shattered one in a sudden bright warmth.
Galadan watches his father a moment, then bows his head as Cernan opens his arms wide and gathers his wayward child to his breast.
The golden light flares brighter, flares silver, and when the afterimages fade, god and andain are gone.
One, at least, will return ere long, whole again and bright as the dawn.
He pauses, and when he goes on, his voice is surprisingly gentle -
- or not, perhaps, so surprisingly.
Kevin Laine, at least, might not have thought it so.
"Lisen has been dead this thousand years, but only today, when her Circlet blazed to the undoing of Maugrim, did her spirit pass to rest. So too has Amairgen's soul now been released from wandering at sea. Two sides of the triangle, Galadan. They are gone, finally, truly gone. But you live yet, and for all that you have done in bitterness and pride, you still heard the sound of Light in Owein's Horn."
He can feel the stillness, all eyes upon him. Some of them, he knows, will not believe that he is doing what he is. Some of them will blame him for it. It does not matter.
"Will you not surrender your pain, Lord of the andain? Give it over. Today has marked the very end of that old, sorrowful tale - will you not let it end? You heard the horn - there is a way back for you on this side of Night. Your father has come to be your guide. Will you not let him take you away and heal you and bring you back?"
Reply
It brings nothing like relief, only pain.
There is a flicker of anguish across his face, and more than that. It is an old, old pain, ancient and unspoken for all these long thousand years.
"If only she had loved me! I might have shone so bright!"
And then he covers his eyes--and his pain--with his hands, and weeps.
Weaver on the Loom, but he weeps, tears enough to flood the plain, or so it seems.
They are the first tears the Wolflord of the andain has ever shed, heavy with old regrets, bitter betrayal, and salt.
Reply
If he were not so completely himself at this moment, Twiceborn and Schafer both - if he had not come into his power, at long last, he would be disturbed by the strength of the kinship he feels to the Wolflord.
But he is, and so he understands.
Behind him, he hears Ruana of the Paraiko and Ra-Tenniel, lord of the lios alfar, raise their voices in a harmony of lament.
Reply
All his attention seems to be on Paul, now, though in truth the majority of it rests with his father upon the hill.
Father.
"You would truly do this? Let me go from here?"
Hope and despair are at war in his voice, in his face, in his soul.
It is an old, old, battle, and only recently has hope even begun to edge toward the fray. It will be a long time yet before any can know which impulse might win.
Reply
He says it loudly, now, and clearly, and though there are frowns, he knows not a single person will gainsay his right.
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"Why?"
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Paul hesitates, a moment, before going on.
"And because of another thing. When you first came to kill me on the Summer Tree you said something. Do you remember?"
Reply
He only nods, slowly, winter-grey eyes fixed on Paul, desperation and hope hidden beneath his half-lowered eyelids.
Reply
He says it quietly, and with compassion. Being wrong: that, too, is something that Galadan will have to learn.
"The truth is, you were almost one of us, but you didn't know it then. You had put it too far behind you. Now you know, you have remembered. There has been more than enough killing today. Go home, unquiet spirit, and find healing. Then come back among us with the blessing of what you should always have been."
Reply
His hands gradually relax at his sides as he nods, once.
Then, one hand over his heart, he bows, deep and graceful, much as his father once bowed, long ago and almost yesterday, to the Lord of the Summer Tree.
He turns toward that same father, steps slow and so careful as he moves through the circle of men he sought to kill only moments ago, and approaches Cernan, lord of the beasts.
The horned god watches him come, sunlight gilding both the grand figure and the shattered one in a sudden bright warmth.
Galadan watches his father a moment, then bows his head as Cernan opens his arms wide and gathers his wayward child to his breast.
The golden light flares brighter, flares silver, and when the afterimages fade, god and andain are gone.
One, at least, will return ere long, whole again and bright as the dawn.
Reply
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