person of defiant hope

the weeping stars

Relief, dearly and gladly bought, washes over Eruvanda when she descries at last Glanweth’s little form bundled in her brother’s arms. As a moss to a tree does she cling, her quiet, hiccoughing words replacing the bird-cries of the still morning air.

So early it is, the sun has refused to show face as yet. The air is fresh and chill, drifting down from the cresting ice of the mountains. Eruvanda draws the blanket tight when it gusts about her bare skin.

“And after,” she hears from the quivering child, “The beast swallows you whole. And Andir, and Ertan, and Vanda, and, and—”

With a broken cry, little Glanweth becomes a being wrought of heartbreak.

“You were gone, you were gone,” she wails into Manveru’s shoulder, “Gone, gone, gone.”

There is nothing so terrible as hearing a child weep for fear, least of all one’s own. And even after so many years past, so many sleepless nights spent begging relief from shrieking sobs, so many days spent soothing little sorrows; even still does Eruvanda’s heart writhe with the agony of her grief.

“Ai, little one, light of my heart,” whispers Manveru, kind as ever. He takes with all gentleness one little hand in his. “See here, my love! See now the warmth in my hand. See now the warmth of my breath. There is yet life in me. There is still a song in my heart. Do not weep, little one, do not fear. It was only a dream, I am yet alive.”

Further does the child burrow into him, her cries softening where they are drowned into his chest. He pulls her closer, holds her dear, swearing with his deeds the presence of life.

When he raises his head, he meets Eruvanda’s eyes, and silent anguish shadows his features. He is yet young, she is reminded, only two and thirty winters past. Forever does he seem with a foot towards the grave, dark and worn with fatigue.

Quietly, she comes to stand beside him, as ever she has stood when she was a child and he her stars.

“Terrors plague her,” he murmurs, long fingers running through midnight locks, “She could not sleep.”

Eruvanda places a hand on the girl’s quivering back, her brows drawn, a frown pulling her features. “When did she waken?”

“A few glasses past.”

Her eyes stretch wide. “I was not aware, nor did I hear her rise. If she disturbed your sleep—”

“Peace, dear one.” There is such sweetness in his smiling eyes, it makes her flush like the crimson-bellied dawn. “What is rest to the troubles of your souls?

“And in any matter,” the worry returns to his soft voice, like clouds over the moon, “Glan did not waken me, and she was prudent not to rouse any, I believe. You cannot be to blame, not when she has endeavored thusly.”

But another reason causes the shadow to be drawn over his face as a veil. She opens her mouth to give her question voice. With a sigh, heavy like the anchor of a ship, it is he who first speaks.

“I found her weeping silently in the garden.”

The garden. At such an hour. In the chill of a spring morning.

“By the Alfar,” Eruvanda breathes, staring at the slumbering child with new and frightened eyes.

“What could possess her, Vanda,” he says in haunted voice, her head held against his heart with a hand, “What has she beheld that drove her to seek comfort in the cold dew and not the embrace of one beloved? How long, how many have we missed for lack of notice?”

Dreamer, flashes the thought in her mind, Seer.

“Do you mean to say…”

His head dips, chin buried in the child’s hair. His eyes are closed, and his years are increased beyond even death’s mark. Even though his arms are wound strong around her little frame, he must forever bow under the knowledge that there is only so much he can protect her from.

“Aye, Eruvanda. I do.”

So it is, as it was, and it shall be.

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