CHAPTER 61 – What Immortal Hand or Eye

In the lesser warmth of that sunroom within the greater warmth of that loving home, Saphienne experienced a revelation as she beheld the ancient poem held by Iolas’ father, all her surroundings falling away as she read and reread the concluding verses.

Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight;
Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.

We are led to believe a lie
When we see not through the eye
Which was born in a night to perish in a night
While the elves slept in trees of light.

Gods appear and gods are light
To those poor elves who dwell in night
But do a human form display
To those who dwell in realms of day.

“You’re upset,” Athidyn said, feeling guilty as he shut the book. “I shouldn’t have started with this. The metaphors aren’t readily apparent to elves who haven’t studied the doctrine of Our Lady.”

With the weight of ages upon her eyelids, Saphienne slowly blinked. “I’m not upset.”

“Your eyes are watering.”

He was right, she realised; Saphienne wiped their corners. “I’m moved by the artistry.” She lied convincingly — for she spoke the truth. “That might be the most beautiful poem I’ve ever read.”

Her words made him frown, though not in disapproval. “Many people with religious faith are offended by the imagery. Even most priests who know about the poems are very disparaging of them…” He chuckled as he made sense of her to himself. “Actually, Nelathiel is one of the few I know who’s read them and likes them. I see why the two of you got on.”

Aware that she was in danger of revealing too much, Saphienne sat back and swallowed. “Would you mind explaining the differing interpretations of the poem according to Her doctrine?” She used what she knew of the ancient ways to avoid controversy. “I think it’s about kindness… but that seems too reductive.”

“You’re more astute than you think.” Athidyn studied the cover of the collection thoughtfully. “Most people get hung up on the penultimate line, and don’t understand what it’s trying to say to us. Consider that the poet began by emphasising the immanence of the divine — do you know what that means?”

She nodded. “Immanence is the state of existing inherently or exclusively within something, and Nelathiel explained that divine immanence is the concept that the gods are one with the world, both bodiless and embodied, while also remaining boundless.”

“Well, that’s what the opening lines are all about. Which means,” he pressed on, “the closing verses have to be understood through that framing, and interpreted in line with the intervening verses about how mistreatment of nature angers the gods.”

To Saphienne, the significance of the poem was glaringly obvious — and utterly contrary to what she knew about the ancient ways. “If the gods are immanent in the world, then we should look for them everywhere… even in the fleeting lives of humans.”

Athidyn was pleased by what he thought she meant. “And so the poem is saying that how we behave toward the little things in our lives, things which don’t appear to matter very much, reflects on the bigger things that obviously do. So too, some read a warning from Our Lady of the Balanced Scales: if we take it all for granted, the punishment decreed for us by the gods can come from anywhere.”

Her stomach clenched, and Saphienne had to swallow her rage as she forced herself to play along. “…Then, we’re to value everything as preciously as a human would, seeing the splendours given to us by the gods with the ‘fleeting eye’ they possess? To see the ‘eternity’ in an hour?”

“Or face Her wrath.” He shook his head as he set down the book. “At least, that’s how it’s been read by those of Her faithful who think She balances the scales.”

That he was completely blind to the meaning made her both furious and incomparably sad, and somewhere in between she found herself pitying Athidyn, who she could see was trying to live his life by the light of fairness, unaware of the colossal injustice that enshadowed everything he knew. “How do you read it?”

“Well,” he mused, folding his arms as he squinted at the glass above him, “the simple answer would be to say that the poetry isn’t really Her words — that it’s an artistic interpretation of Her doctrine, inspired but not authored by the passions of Our Lady.” He met Saphienne’s gaze as he shook his head. “…But I don’t really believe that. I think that’s too convenient. There’s something of the divine in these poems. While I agree with the interpretation of not taking things for granted, I think the best way to read that poem in particular is as a mystery.”

Saphienne stopped her smile from growing too feral. “A religious mystery.”

“Yes.” He was unaware of her contempt. “I think the point is that it’s meant to make people very uncomfortable, so that it forces them to ask themselves why they’re uncomfortable, and thereby leads them to interrogate what they actually value. The poem sits on one side of Her scales — and how we respond to it, what it stirs in us, speaks to how we might balance them.”

“And what do you value, Athidyn?”

Her question caught him off guard; he smiled as he answered. “Conversations like this one… I remember Nelathiel sitting where you’re sitting right now, having many of the same thoughts that you’re having. I was sure, then, that she’d become a priest…” He laughed. “…I just never thought she’d choose Our Lord of the Endless Hunt!”

Knowing that Athidyn was nearly four hundred years old made Saphienne reassess how she understood Nelathiel, which was a welcome distraction from her seething. “…I don’t actually know Nelathiel’s age.”

“She’s a young adult — a little over a century old.” He faintly blushed. “Last time we spoke, I accidentally talked to her like she’s still a child… she had the good grace just to laugh it off.”

That Nelathiel and Athidyn – and all the other adults she knew, even the elder who had visited her mother – looked the same age physically made it very hard for Saphienne to contemplate them as being born so far part… let alone to imagine how they saw each other. “How did you meet her?”

“She apprenticed to Mathileyn for a while, to learn sewing and embroidery.”

Which she later used to make the puppets that had entertained and unsettled Saphienne. “…I find it difficult to picture her as a child.”

“While I still find it too easy,” he grinned. “But then, Tanelia took fifty years to stop calling me a boy, so I shouldn’t be so hard on myself.”

“The baker?” Saphienne remembered Laewyn’s master, who had been friendly enough to point her toward the home she now sat in.

“She’s a master baker–” Athidyn abruptly coughed, trying and failing to hide his snort. He flushed more deeply than before as he looked away. “…‘Tanelia has attained mastery over her chosen art of baking,’ would be the better way to say that now. I suppose my being juvenile is appropriate: I’m less than half her age.”

Which meant she was around eight hundred years old. Had she been practising the same art for all of that time? She had said that there was always a need for baking… “Who’s the oldest person in our village?”

“No clue.” He shrugged. “The Eastern Vale is still a very young community, but we do have a handful of elders floating around. As best I understand, none of them care much for status, and they aren’t inclined to use their authority very often.” He smirked. “I think they have a rota for attending meetings. Whichever two show up on a given night, they always look terribly bored.”

The elder who had emerged from her family home – Tolduin – had told her and Faylar not to refer to him by any of his titles; he’d been more interested in talking with them than being impressive. “I’ve met Tolduin.”

“He’s a very good man.” Athidyn lifted his tea and sipped. “Everyone respects him, so he’s included in our consensus, but he doesn’t actually live here — he just visits whenever he has an excuse to come out. He told me he feels very self-conscious whenever he’s here, especially when he’s talking to children.”

In retrospect, the elder’s reaction to seeing Saphienne and Faylar waiting for him outside came sharply into focus, and the coals of her anger were doused by the peals of laughter that spilled from her lips. “Gods! He was panicking–”

“Tolduin? Panicked?” The mere suggestion made Athidyn incredulous. “He’s the most unflappable person I know.”

“Of course he is…” Saphienne leant forward and buried her face in her hands. “…And he smiles whenever he’s caught off guard, doesn’t he?”

“I can’t say I’ve noticed…” Athidyn was contemplative. “Though, he does smile a lot whenever he has to talk to children, so you might well be right. If you found him a little overbearing, that’s just how he is whenever he’s worried — he’s always trying to fix things.”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

His pointed conversation with Faylar made sense now, too. She lifted her head. “You sound like you know him well.”

“We talked a lot, when I was thinking about becoming a priest.” His eyes drifted to the poems on his desk as he recounted their past. “Tolduin advised me that priesthood could always wait, and the more we met, the more I came to understand that living the doctrine of Our Lady was more important to Her than understanding it. His theology is that we best please the gods when we emulate Their immanence, which we do by being in the world, and acting in accordance with Their wisdom.”

Aware that Iolas was in earshot, Saphienne reluctantly set aside her interest in deciphering the mysterious elder, and took the opportunity to return to the real reason for her discussion with Athidyn. “But what is that wisdom?”

The would-have-been priest at last drained his cup and stood. “I couldn’t tell you. Didn’t you say it yourself — that you weren’t sure certainty is wise? Anyone who can give you a definitive answer to that question is patently unwise. It’s too much for any one person.”

From the kitchen, Saphienne heard the unmistakable creak of Iolas suddenly sitting upright in his chair.

Were she truly religious, she would have thanked the gods.

* * *

…Except, for all that Athidyn’s answer was exactly what Iolas needed to hear, it didn’t satisfy her. She brooded on it as Athidyn went into the kitchen to make himself more tea, and when he came back she rose and pointed beyond the sunroom, asking if they might put into practice their talk of immanence — and step outside, better to contemplate the divinities in the garden.

“We most certainly can!” He was cheerful as he slid open one of the doors, and sauntered ahead of her across the grass as the wind stirred his mantle and made the paper wheels and chimes hanging from the tree above them spin and ring.

The garden grew wild on the hilltop, untended at first glance, but as she went after Iolas’ father Saphienne soon saw that the flourishing bushes were veiling a deeper order, dividing well-loved spaces while tying them all together. There was a swing upon a frame, vines tangled across all but the seat, suggesting it hadn’t entertained children in some years, though was still frequently sat upon. There was also a deep pond, in which orange and white fish swam sedately until they noticed the approaching elves and hurried to the surface for food, their disappointment dimly visible amid the rippling green.

And there was a small nook filled with potted flowers, thronging around a rare sight: a rough bench that wobbled as Athidyn took his seat. “One of these years, this is finally going to give way…”