Shadow of the West

[Kransha]

Moving away from the two, Morgôs neared the statue of Rhais, which rose before him. It was not, however, an ominous visage to him, but a very gentle one, tendered with the look of a solemn matriarch. Unaccustomed to the situation, Morgôs sat, and then shifted onto his knees and back again, trying to find a comfortable and appropriate position. He ended up sitting on his legs, awkwardly shifting about still, and looked up with little real reverence at the statue. He felt odd, sit-kneeling there on the floor, wondering if Siamak and Zamara might be watching from where they stood. The Elf looked down at the floor, glancing occasionally at the feet of the statue, trying to think of something to think or something to say, but nothing came. This technique was definitely not working, nor was it effective in the least. He decided to try and speak, but did not do so out loud. Instead, he formed words in his mind and spoke them within, rather than thinking their purpose. He focused on the statue.

‘Rhais, or whoever you are. I have not before called upon you or yours, nor have you called upon me and mine. I am not your follower, nor am I your detractor. I do not expect signs or revelations, but doing this will at least clear my conscious, and I will know that I have tried everything. If, by some bizarre chance, you do exist, and you do hear this wherever you dwell, I apologize for not meaning what I say. If you really are what I have been led to believe, you know that this prayer is illegitimate, but the thought behind it is virtuous.’

He felt ridiculous; extremely ridiculous. He heard nothing (not that he expected the statue to speak), and it made him feel worse about the predicament. He glanced up at the apex of the statuary, but saw no light of truth, and let his head fall again, taking a moment to rub his lithe fingers against a sore brow, pained by an ache in his head. With a groaning sigh, he slumped, and tried again. ‘I realize,’ he thought, ‘that you are not present, here, now, with me, nor do you have reason to care about me. If I believed in you, you might, but my text indicate that you are no more than a myth of my people, an explanatory legend. I do not believe in you, Goddess, if that is what you are, but I am searching for something to believe in that can distract me from what I believe in now. Though your following may not be the correct one, or the true one, or the right one, I need a solution and, right now, you are it. Count yourself lucky that I am not at the gate of Rae, seeking his wisdom. You are my choice.’ Morgôs felt strange as he thought this. He had used these words before, before swearing fealty to Siamak, and the memory sensation that filled him was disconcerting, but he continued. ‘If you are capable of hearing me, then hear me out. If you are there, beyond the girdle of this realm, looking down on me; I offer you this prayer.’

And then he heard it.

“Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo, Elerrinon.”

It was a beautiful voice, whose melodious chords rang in his ears like wondrous thunder. Yet, it sounded like no more than the whispering wind, all words contained in the blink of an eye, the wisp of a cloud in passing. The preternatural serenity of it relaxed him, lulling him for a split-second into a state of confused but thankful catatonia, freezing his blood in his veins, but it fell from him less than an instant later. The whole experience was so strange that he did not comprehend it and, after it was over, its beauty diminished so much that he barely realized it had happened. The words, in a tongue he did not know, seemed like no words at all. Each held an emotion, neither happy nor sad, but simply neutral, as if they each floated individually in some nether of nonexistence. It was ecstasy, all bottled up into one second that flew by and left no record of itself. As soon as the voice concluded, Morgôs barely knew it had happened, and was left in confused silence.

Since it passed so quickly, Morgôs could not help but dismiss it as a sudden mental spasm. A little shaky and uneasy, he remained seated; satisfied that he had done what he could. Recollection of the voice faded fast, but a bare imprint was left, puzzling the Elf, but not truly daunting him. Quietly he knelt, wondering what to do next. He was done with his attempt at prayer, and was ready to engage a lesson with Siamak, but the Prince was not done speaking to the High Priestess.

In fact, the words being exchanged were fully audible to Morgôs. Though they were no speaking to quietly for mortal ears, Morgôs’ attuned senses heard them perfectly. He was not an eavesdropper, but he could not help but hear them, and he was comfortably seated and did not feel like rising. So, with an underhanded feeling gnawing guiltily at his mind, he waited, pretending to be in deep thought, and listened to Siamak and Zamara speak.