“’Tis deep enough, now, Naki,” Jellihondor said quietly.
Rethnaki straightened, noting how sore he had become over the last few hours he and Jellihondor had spent digging Glothnafar’s grave. The grave was about one and a half times his height in length and width, and standing up, he noted that it was deep enough that only his head and shoulders were above ground. It had been hard work, digging the grave. The soil this close to the mountains was rocky and dense, and proved to be hard to remove with just the shovels they had brought with them. But he had worked tirelessly, nonetheless, blocking out everything else around him.
Rethnaki wondered idly how long it had taken them as he pulled himself over the lip of the grave with arms that were sore and trembling from overuse. The sun had moved much further west, and the meadow was now flooded with the harsher, brighter light of mid-afternoon. He lay stretched out on the cool grass, catching his breath, waiting for his body to stop sweating. Although he knew the days had grown quite cold, the sheer physical exertion had made him feel overly warm.
The manual labor had thankfully, and somewhat paradoxically, kept Rethnaki’s mind off the death of the great centaur and the toll it was taking on Jellihondor. For hours, he had thrown himself into the work, letting the rhythm and strain of it give him a bleak respite. But now there was nothing to distract him but his own tired, dirty body and the chill that he was beginning to feel again.
He heard footsteps approaching, but did not move to see who was coming. After a few seconds, Elcrona’s face appeared above his own. “Sit up an’ I’ll clean ye off. An’ I brought ye a fresh shirt,” she said, tugging at his arm.
Rethnaki heaved himself up and sat slumped forward with his head and arms resting on his knees. He glanced across the freshly dug grave to find Vathorem helping Jellihondor sit up as well, with a basin of water and a fresh shirt laid out next to him. Without warning, he felt Elcrona’s cold, wet rag press against his back, and Rethnaki straightened and let out a small yelp of surprise.
“Oh, sorry, Naki. I should ha’e realized ‘twould be quite cold,” she said, holding the rag tightly in her hands to warm it. “I didn’ see ta archer. I looked all o’er but I t’ink he bolted back as soon as….” he heard her voice crack and trail off, as if she couldn’t bring herself to mention Glothnafar.
Elcrona sat in silence for a moment and then pressed the rag against his back again. It was warmer this time, and the smooth, cool sensation of it wiping away the grit and dirt from his back was soothing. “Anyway,” she continued, “I did find a couple o’ horses tied up a ways away. I brought ‘em back wit’ me in case we can use ‘em fer anyt’in’.”
Rethnaki nodded. “Thanks fer goin’, Ellie,” he said, patting her hand. Rehtnaki was surprised at the hoarseness and tiredness of his voice. “When did ye get back?”
“About t’ree hours ago, but ye were workin’ so feverishly tha’ it seemed best ta wait ‘til ye were done,” she responded.
Rethnaki swallowed and nodded again. Elcrona noticed, and assuming that he had grown dehydrated from the sweaty work, passed him a canteen of water. Rethnaki drank deeply from it while Elcrona cleaned him up, and the caring, intimate gesture made him grateful to have her near him. When she had finished, Elcrona helped him into his shirt and pulled him to his feet. She gave him a look full of sadness and compassion, and looked as if she wanted to speak but said nothing. Instead, she kissed him softly on the cheek and walked back to the others.
Rethnaki took a deep breath and turned to face Jellihondor. He walked around the grave as Vathorem handed the old elf a fresh shirt. Vathorem nodded at Rethnaki as he gathered his things and walked away, leaving Rethnaki to help Jellihondor to his feet.
“Thank ye fer helpin’ me, Naki,” Jellihondor said. His face was still drawn and dark, but his voice was grateful.
“’Twas an honor, sir,” Rethnaki responded quietly.
“Ye should rest now, lad,” Jellihondor said pushing Rethnaki away gently. But Rethnaki couldn’t bring himself to leave and stood next to his commander.
Jellihondor gave Rethnaki a strange look, a mix of appreciation and confusion, before turning to address the rebels at large. “Jarthen, Sellior, Elcrona, help me lower him into the grave. Cut two length o’ rope an’ bring ‘em o’er ta me.”
Rethnaki, exhausted and relieved that Jellihondor had not asked him to help, watched the rebels obey again, as silently and quickly as before. Sellior cut the rope and helped Jellihondor slide the pieces under Glothnafar’s massive, heavy body. Sellior and Elcrona took the ends of the rope on side, while Jarthen and Jellihondor took the ends on the other. Jellihondor counted to three and the three elves and human boy strained and lifted the great centaur’s remains into the air and maneuvered him until he was suspended over the grave. On Jellihondor’s command, they slowly lowered him down, and Rethnaki felt a deep pang of sadness shoot through his heart when Glothnafar’s body dropped down out of sight.
Jellihondor stood stone-faced at the edge of the grave, staring down into it as if the rest of the world did not exist. Without looking up, he made a small beckoning gesture to call the rest over to the grave. Rethnaki stood and walked over, noticing out of the corner of his eye that the three injured elves, Moshel, Helkint, and Vathorem, leaned on each other for support as they walked over. At the same time, Rethnaki noticed that Jarthen stepped back away from the grave and stood separated slightly from the rest. Rethnaki considered walking over to him, but he felt too distracted and fatigued to take care of the boy. “After we’re t’rough ta damned gate I’ll talk ta him. He probably t’inks ‘tis his fault, poor lad,” the elf thought to himself.
Jellihondor, once again standing still with his hair blowing about his shoulders, regarded his small band of rebels. Rethnaki could see the trails of his tears streaking down Jellihondor’s stoic face and thought about how much effort it must have taken for the old elf to hold his anguish in. “Then again,” Rethnaki thought sadly, remembering how the great elvish hero had been fighting in the Border Wars and how much he had lived through, “‘Tis likely tha’ Jelli’s dealt wit’ more than his fair share o’ loss.”
“May he guide an’ nurture us from ta other realm wit’ ta grace and wit he did in this,” Jellihonodor said in a voice which ached with despair and regret. During this time with the Rebel Forces, Rethnaki had seen many of his comrades fall. He had attended countless battleground funerals like this, and yet, never had he heard a voice laden with more pain and emotional devastation than Jellihondor’s.
“May he welcome us wit’ grace an’ wit when we are on ta other side wit’ him,” Rethnaki and the others returned in quiet, solemn voices.
Wiping the tears from his own cheeks, Rethnaki watched as Jellihondor knelt down at the edge of the grave and peered into it. He heard Jellihondor speaking in what he recognized as a dialect of the centaur’s language, and saw him kiss both his palms and place them over his eyes. The old elf rocked back and forth slightly as he recited more in the strange tongue. Though Rethnaki only had a passing understanding of it, it sounded as if Jellihondor was speaking of the deep forests and streams of the Erkenheld. Then, Jellihondor kissed his palms again and offered his hands to the grave.
Rethnaki had only seen the mourning rituals of the centaurs a handful of times, but he knew that
the gestures reflected Glothnafar’s culture1, and that he was once again witnessing a very private moment between them, as if the call-and-response between the elves had been more for the rest of the rebels’ benefit than for anything else.
Jellihondor stood again, still peering down into the grave and silently weeping. “Give me a knife,” he said to no one in particular, holding his hand out. Helkint immediately stepped forward and handed Jellihondor his knife with his good hand. Jellihondor looked at the boy and nodded gratefully, taking note of how Helkint’s recently shorn hair swirled about in the wind. The old elf slowly pulled his long, white hair up as if to twist it into a knot and sliced through it in a single, fluid motion. He handed the knife back to Helkint with one hand and released the glinting white hairs into Glothnafar’s grave lock by lock with the other. When there was no more hair to let go of, Jellihondor gave a deep, shuddering sigh. “Bury him,” he said. Rethnaki nodded at Elcrona and Sellior and pointed to the shovels lying next to the open grave as he moved to Jellihondor’s side.
He stood next to his commander, whose lean frame cast a long shadow across the centaur’s grave, unsure what to do. He stood, listening to the rhythmic thunk of each shovelful of rocky, sandy, soil as it was thrown into the grave and the occasional whinnying of the horses, and opened his mouth to speak. But, finding no words he thought would ease Jellihondor’s suffering, he closed it again.
“Tend ta yer lads, Naki,” Jellihondor said softly.
Rethnaki shook his head. “Perhaps ye made a mistake, Jelli, fer I’d rather stand here silently wit’ ye than lead ta rest onward.” Jellihondor nodded graciously and rested a hand on the younger elf’s shoulder. Rethnaki wished he could do more, but was glad that his presence alone seemed to relieve Jellihondor’s unspeakable loneliness in some small way. The two stood there together, silent and secluded from the rest, until Glothnafar was fully buried.
Jellihondor squared his shoulders and fumbled around in his vest pockets for a moment before he produced a sort of odd-looking acorn. Rethnaki watched as the old elf cupped it in his palm and whispered something in Norsan – Rethnaki shuddered involuntarily when he heard the blue elves’ language – and planted the seed at the head of the grave.
“GROW!” Jellihondor commanded. There was a loud crack, like the sound of driftwood splitting on the beach of its own accord. Then a sort of dull thump, like the sound of a large stone falling on a mossy forest floor. There was a pause, and then Rethnaki watched in utter awe as a magnificent golden tree sprung from the grave. The trunk, which was as wide and thick as something from an ancient wood, broke through the earth and soared into the sky. As branches folded down and bloomed blood-red leaves, its roots popped out of the ground and stretched far and wide. Rethnaki stared at it: its bark shone a pale, vibrant gold, glittering in the late afternoon sun, and the light shone through its crimson leaves in such a way that cast the rebels in glowing red shadows. It was haunting and immensely beautiful, and born of the deep forest magicks. It was, Rethnaki thought, a perfect tribute for their fallen hero.
Jellihondor reached up and lovingly touched one of the branches that had stretched itself out over their heads. “‘Tis ta best I could do ta bring ta forest ta ye, Glothie. I’m sorry I couldn’ bring ye a stream, too,” he said in a pained voice.
Jellihondor turned to Rethnaki. “Naki, I’m afraid I ha’e ta leave to Rebels, lad,” he said in a loud,
clear voice, meant to grab everyone’s attention. The shock of it hit Rethnaki like a battering ram to his chest, knocking the wind right out of him. He gasped and tried to say something but found himself speechless. Jellihondor shook his head slightly and continued. “I can’ go back ta ta forest wit’out him. ‘Twouldn’ be righ’, jus’ as ‘tisn’ righ’ tha’ me mistakes ha’e let him be buried in this field so far from his home.”2
“Jelli, no, ye should – ” Rethnaki started.
But then Jellihondor reached up to his vest and tore off his rebel emblem, a piece of dark green fabric with a great tree embroidered in gold-colored thread, and handed it to Rethnaki. Rethnaki had no choice but to respect the action, as it was the accepted symbol of someone renouncing their membership in the Rebel Forces. The rebels gasped; everyone had seen how hard this was for Jellihondor, but no one had expected this.
Jellihondor fished around in his vest pockets again, this time producing a rather worn looking letter. “Naki, fer some time now I knew ye’d take me place. Not because I had visions, mind ye, but because yer a more natural leader than anyone I’ve e’er seen.” He paused and gave a sad sort of half-smile, and added, “‘Tis yer destiny, I guess.” He handed Rethnaki the letter, and the shocked young elf took it without quite realizing it.
“Give tha’ letter ta Valiyon when ye see him next. I’ve promoted ye ta me own position in it – ta stubborn ass won’ listen ta anyt’in’ ye tell him wit’out it,” he continued. He sighed and cupped Rethnaki’s cheek. “I hoped ne’er ta ha’e ta give it ta ye – certainly not like this! – but I’ve been holdin’ onta it in case somet’in’ happened an’ I wasn’ around.”
Rethnaki felt totally unprepared. He was still so young! He had made so many mistakes already! And now Jellihondor was asking him to take his place among the top ranks of the rebel’s leadership? He shook his head violently and grabbed at Jellihondor’s shoulders. “Don’ leave! I can’ do this! I’m not ye, Jelli!” he said in a strangled voice, shaking with fear and anxiety.
“Not yet, but ye will be soon, lad,” he said in a quiet way that left no room for Rethnaki to argue anymore. “Now, lead yer troops, Rethnaki. I’ll take horse an’ ride ta Elftown, I’ve plenty o’ friends there.”
Rethnaki gave Jellihondor a sharp look. He was deeply worried about Jellihondor. His actions seemed so unlike him: he was, after all, the elf who’d shaped the rebels’ tactics for the entire history of the Border Wars. Rethnaki wondered just how much Glothnafar’s death had unhinged him. “Stay with Carador,” he said firmly. Jellihondor looked as if he would refuse but stopped himself. After a moment, he relented and agreed to call on Rethnaki’s twin. The knowledge that his distraught mentor would be under the care of his brother gave Rethnaki some solace.
Rethnaki nodded gratefully and prepared himself to lead the others out. He glanced about, taking stock of them: Helkint looked well enough, despite the broken fingers, Vathorem looked worn and tired, and was clutching his shattered arm, and Elcrona was already repacking the shovels and canteens as if she could read his mind. Next to her, he saw Sellior fretting over Moshel’s deep wound, and Rethnaki remembered the pain walking had been causing the tinker elf, which worried him. And Jarthen was – Jarthen was nowhere! He spun around looking for the human boy, panic rising in him, as he cursed himself for not paying closer attention to him.
“Has anyone seen Jarthen?!” he asked in a frenzied voice. The others shook their heads, wracked their brains for when they had seen him last, and started calling his name out. He must ha’e run; he must feel responsible fer Glothnafar’s death Rethnaki realized. “We can’ lose him! We ha’e ta take him wit’ us, e’en if we ha’e ta search all night!” Rethnaki called out, eliciting surprised looks from his fellows.
Jellihondor reached out and lightly took hold of his upper arm, strangely unperturbed. “Just go wit’out him, Naki,” he said softly.
Rethnaki gaped at the old elf in disbelief. “But…Glothnafar said he’s…if tha’s true, how can we just go wit’out him?”
“He’s safer here, in Elothnin, than he is anywhere else. Ye know tha’. An’, besides, he’s likely ta run back ta Susselfen or down ta Neerhemhind, an’ either way I’ll be close enough ta keep an eye on him an’ get him back ta ye safe,” Jellihondor responded, clearly trying to calm Rethnaki’s frayed nerves. “Ye need ta go, Naki! ‘Tis almost dusk, now.”
Rethnaki looked around and saw to his surprise that it was almost dusk, which he admitted to himself frightened him even more than the missing boy. He swallowed, took a deep breath and nodded. “Send me word as soon as ye find him, I don’ care how,” he said, looking Jellihondor in the eyes. It was not quite a command, but it was not a question either.
He turned to the rest of the rebels, still feeling as if he was pretending to be their leader rather than actually leading them. “Alrigh’. Alrigh’, here’s wha’ we’ll do. We ha’e ta leave now, before dark falls, wit’out ta boy. I know! I wish it weren’ so – ye lot ha’e no idea how much I wish we didn’ ha’e to – but Jelli’ll keep tabs on him. Moshel, ye feelin’ like ye can walk?” The tinker winced and nodded, saying that they were quite close to the gate now. “Good. Moshel will lead Sellior, Helkint, Elcrona and meself ta ta gate. I’ll arrange ta have a bard meet us an’ we’ll travel t’rough ta Fethil under ta guise o’ a band o’ minstrels. Hope ta lot o’ ye can sing or dance or do somet’in’ musical, because I can’.”
“Naki, wha’ about – ” Vathorem started, with a confused look on his face.
Rethnaki sighed and cut him off. “I didn’ ferget about ye, Vathorem. Jelli tells me ye can pick up written languages faster than most o’ our kind can pick up spoken ones?” Vathorem blushed slightly and nodded. “An’ I ne’er saw ye pick up yer bow in this battle, but still ye managed ta produce a lingering horror on five o’ those soldiers, true?”
Vathorem blushed a little deeper, unaccustomed to receiving anything but well-meaning jabs at his subpar martial abilities. “Well, truth be told, I was tryin’ ta hit all eight o’ ‘em, but aye, five o’ ‘em fell prey ta me litany.”
"Vathorem, friend, I’m goin’ ta ask ye ta go ta Elftown wit’ Jelli – honest truth is yer no good ta us as a soldier, but ye got some prodigious talents tha’ we can use as a spy. As long as tha’s alrigh’ wit ye, o’ course.”
Vathorem’s jaw dropped and he slowly broke into a broad grin. “No, no, I agree wit’ ye. Ta Elftown it is.”
Noting the elf’s broken arm, he shouldered Vathorem’s pack and escorted him to the horse.
Rethnaki helped Vathorem onto his steed, taking care with his broken arm. “I need a couple o’ favors from ye, Vathorem, if ‘tis not too much trouble ta ask. An’ I need ye ta keep quiet about one o’ them.”
Vathorem, intrigued nodded. “O’ course, Naki.”
Rethnaki reached into one of his vest pockets, which had been added on the inside lining of the left side of his vest, just over his heart. He handed Vathorem a stack of neatly folded letters. “When ye get ta me brother’s, give him these an’ tell him they’re fer me wife,” he said, trying hard to hold back tears.
Vathorem, like most of the rebels, found the news that Rethnaki had a spouse quite surprising, but masked it well. He nodded and secured the letters into one of the saddlebags. “So, I take it, this is not ta favor ye need me ta keep secret?”
“No,” Rethnaki said, “‘Tisn’. This ‘tis just a favor from one soldier ta another.” He sighed and paused for a moment, trying to keep himself from dwelling any longer on his dear Isilida. “Ta other thing I need from ye,” he continued once he had regained his composure, “is tha’ ye keep a close eye on Jelli. I’m worried about him, an’ I’d greatly appreciate it if ye sent me reports on his state e’ery now an’ again. I’m sure he’ll write ta me, but he’ll lie t’rough his teeth if he t’inks I’ll get concerned enough ta come ta Elftown meself. I’ll be in touch wit’ ye anyway about yer work.”
Vathorem nodded, and Rethnaki turned as if to leave, but paused, and looked at the other elf over his shoulder with a strange, hesitant expression. “Vathorem, ye can’ let anyone know yer watchin’ him – especially not me twin. Carador will tell Jelli as soon as ta words ha’e left yer lips. I may be a bad liar, but he doesn’ e’en try. An’ wha’s more, Carador has a way o’ gettin’ folks ta spill t’ings, so watch yerself when yer wit’ him.” Vathorem nodded again, and Rethnaki walked back to the others feeling considerably better.
Rethnaki sent a mechanical bird to Johannes the satyr offering him a small sum of money and a great deal of gratitude if he would bring a wagon around to the side of the city and take them across the Fethil. He sent another bird to Safir explaining that Moshel was injured and suggesting that the felintarks meet them when they returned to Susselfen. Meanwhile, the rest of the rebels packed in tense silence, and bid a melancholy goodbye to Jellihondor and Vathorem as the pair galloped off into the gloaming. They watched them until the figures disappeared into the dark horizon, and Rethnaki felt deep pangs of sadness and apprehension as he watched the grieving elf ride away. He did not know when he would see Jellihondor next, and had no idea how to be a rebel without serving under the great elf.
He took a deep breath and tried his best to assume the confidence and self-possession Jellihondor always seemed to have in such situations and lead the others to the gate. It was a slow, silent trek, which only grew more silent and slower as night fell around them. Moshel was able to call down the filigree gate more quickly this time, but Rethnaki found its swirling, shining pieces vaguely threatening in the darkness, as if they were strangely beautiful gnashing teeth.
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1 Rethnaki was, indeed, correct that Jellihondor was performing centaur mourning rituals as best he could. Traditionally, a centaur considered a great seer is buried in the Erkenheld Forest between an old, strong tree and a magickal stream or river. The centaurs believe that such places allow the centaur’s spirit to split between the mundayne nourishment of the tree and also be swept away by the River of Time, where he or she can continue to guide and aid future centaur seers. In Chasing the Blue Mist: Conversations with the Magickal Folk of the Erkenheld, Dr. Phinneas Flumpert’s ethnographic account of the magickal cultures of the forest, the following translation is given for the eulogy of a centaur seer such as Glothnafar:
Return to the forest, friend,
Return to the River of Time,
For you have given all you can to us.
Without you, we will be blind.
Without you, the Forest is cold.
Without you, we will never be as strong.
Rest, Seer, and live in all places at all times.
2 Centaurs feel quite tied to the Erkenheld Forest and it is considered sacrilegious to not be buried within it. Centaurs who meet their ends outside of its verdant borders are thought to be stranded away from their home, forever alone and in despair.
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