Chapter 14
An Elven Celebration

n a moonlit garden a graceful gathering of elves came together to celebrate the earth. Otherworldly music, wistfully arresting and enchanting, was carried on the breeze and filled the woods with its lilting allure. Neighbouring elves from Myrthwood and Evandale had joined the divertissement, and the garden and entire surrounding woods were filled with elegant, informal gatherings of those who had not seen one another for long intervals. Ellendria and Aldar were also there. They maintained a certain manner that was owing to their station but otherwise faded in with the many others.

Daenara sat by the edge of an elegant fountain, overflowing with water glistening like liquid silver. Éomus was at her side. She wore a lovely gown the colour of primrose. Not far from her Deacon sat, dark-clad and handsome, on stone steps that led down into the garden where little fire-flies hovered, glowing gold in the night. Throughout the garden a sumptuous banquet was laid out on platters of fine silver. Serving-maidens presented themselves when needed, keeping the glasses flowing with wine.

Sitting alone, forearms resting on his knees, Deacon was withdrawn, distant and watchful. The object of his attention was Mariwen, who was in the handsome company of Valdur and Aldur, the sons of Aldar and Ellendria. Mariwen was quite different to those she gathered with. Her face sweet and luminous, she was like the glory of morning, while they had the grace of evening. Every one of her movements, the way she put her lips to the fine rim of the glass, and the way she touched Valdur’s arm, Deacon watched. His face was passive and expressionless, but he suffered.

Occasionally his gaze would shift to his mother and he would feel glad. She looked at peace and comfortable, listening to the elves’ lilting intonations, which seemed to bathe her soul in their beauty. She sank a little against Éomus, and he caressed her hand and arm with the lightest brush of fingertips. Deacon grimaced to himself and turned his gaze aside. He had an unfathomable aversion to Éomus touching his mother.

All the elven children, who were not very childish, played about the garden, and Deacon was obliged to move his glass of wine from the step several times so the children could pass. It happened often enough that Deacon finally decided to abandon his seat and stood up. The moment he did it seemed Mariwen suddenly noticed his existence, for she immediately looked his way, and with a sweet smile came forward, weaving through the crowd unfalteringly to get to him. He stood watching her come toward him and felt a flush of heat. He thought her love the most precious a man could possess.

She took his hand and led him unhesitatingly toward the company she had momentarily abandoned. Although Deacon would rather she had led him into the woods so they might be alone, he yielded to her will, half-dazed. The haunting music ever drifted through the air, but a sweeter music played in his ears, and he was blind to all else but the maiden drawing him. It seemed to Deacon that the party’s spirit had affected her, for she was exquisitely interested in him, glancing often over her shoulder, eyes adance with the sparkling lights of the stars.

Deacon came back to a sense of himself, to find he was welcomed into Mariwen’s gathering of friends. He did not share their gracious enthusiasm, and for a moment the gentle group was oppressed by his dominating presence, conscious of his cynicism. Condemned to their society, he stood, silent and inscrutable, but he had the loveliest of consolations. Mariwen was at his side. Occasionally he looked down at her hand that hung so near to his. It lay there so near, yet out of his reach. He wanted to take it up and claim her and have every right to her.

The conversation at last broke off. Mariwen, leaving with Aldur, asked Deacon to join them. He declined, remaining where he was, hoping she would remain with him. She chose instead to leave, and Deacon felt a stab of jealousy. To keep the indifference in his attitude was a challenge.

As the evening drew on Deacon saw that his mother had become excessively weary, the bloom worn off her cheek, and his heart grew sore. Her frailty was a cruel, piteous contrast to the undimishing beauty of the elves. As he looked at his mother with troubled eyes, she happened to look over at him and gave a soft, reassuring smile. Therein was his stability, comfort, and sustaining warmth. He felt a flush of love for her and returned the smile with his own.

The hour was late, the minutes dragging on endlessly. Deacon sat with his hands hanging lifelessly between his knees, head down, absent and engrossed in thoughts that were soon forgotten. His attention was captured by several elven maidens who drifted subtly into the garden like mist of the moon. They carried with them white flowing veils. Their lovely forms were draped in pale gowns, so light it seemed moonlight itself clothed them.

They did not, as any human maiden would, observe with pleasure the effect of their beauty, but were devoted to the pleasures of dance, scarcely aware that they were not alone. The night air became alive and vibrant. To the enchanting music the maidens danced, their slender limbs like branches swaying in the evening breeze, gracefully manipulating the veils, which seemed an extension of themselves. There was a graceful fluidity of movement in the dance, entrancing and mysterious.

As though caught in a dream, in a sort of mesmeric state, Deacon watched the unison of flowing femininity. Their beauty affected him subtly, like the night air he breathed, and seemed to awaken his blood. They had his attention, yet they had no possession of his heart. They were vague and unreal to his eyes, too faultless and devoid of any flaw, too utterly elusive. He had been with women of his own kind. They had not been so nearly flawless, or changelessly divine, but they were tangible. He could submerge himself in them and feel responsive warmth and life.

Deacon was so immersed in his occupation, he had not seen his mother retire. When finally he turned his attention, he saw the seat that previously occupied her was empty. He saw Éomus lead her away. She looked unwell, her face white and her movements unsteady. She seemed strangely remote and clinging in his arms.

Deacon didn’t follow directly but remained for the end of the dance. Later, he started up the stairs to his home and paused mid-step. He saw on the balcony his mother standing with Éomus, clasped against him, their words low and intimate. In his arms her whole aspect and spirit seemed so at peace and in accord with his, her face so unblemished, that Deacon hoped it might be the promise of returning health. Yet a doubt, a vague feeling of disquiet came to him. In his soul rose despair. He felt weak and rested his hand on the rail to support himself, his heart failing.

Éomus bent and kissed Daenara. The closeness of body and spirit and the everlasting tenderness shared between them was apparent in that moment, and Deacon felt suddenly moved. Swiftly and unnoticed he drew away from the house as if it were a sacred temple in which he had no right to enter. He ventured back into the woods, wandering wherever his will would take him. Coming to a bridge that was serene in the evening light, Deacon’s step faltered and his pulse quickened. Mariwen was there by herself. In her he saw promise of satisfying his discontent. He could go to her in pieces and she would make him whole.

He quietly joined her. They stood together, looking out into the luminous night. It held little charm for him, but she was entranced. To her clear sight the night was more beautiful. Down below water shimmered and sparkled. Though he was very near he felt as though he was looking at her from a thousand miles away. Her eyes looked far out, lost in a maiden’s dreamy reverie. “It is wonderous, is it not?” She always spoke of evenings most sacredly.

“Yes,” he said but found it impossible to fix his attention upon the view, whilst beside him was this angelic form. Never before had she looked so lovely to him. Bathed in soft light she possessed an unworldly beauty. She glanced over her shoulder as she spoke.

“It is unfortunate the most beautiful part of the night is often missed by humans, lying in their beds.”

Deacon hardly attended to her words, merely absorbing her presence. He stood a moment undecided, looking at her adoringly, his heart filled with a hot pain and yearning, so that his entire chest was one painful ache. Hesitantly, he raised his hand to smooth down her hair, which fell in golden waves to her waist, but let the hand drop quietly back down to his side. She did not see. He resented this divided attention, jealous that she could be so content within her own mind, feeling as though she had wandered into a warm enclosure and left him standing out in the cold, doomed to be always on the outside looking in, always waiting, always restraining himself.

He was silent and disappointed. She held herself aloof and beyond him. He wanted her to say something meaningful, to caress him, but she would do neither. Done with waiting, he let his hand stray over to hers on the railing and cover it affectionately. He leaned against her, pressed so very close that she could feel his body, the inert weight of his soul full upon her, bringing her down. He could feel her resistance but was encouraged she had not withdrawn. He stole his hand softly round her waist, pressing her more against him. He was tired of subtle and decided to commit himself irrevocably.

“Do you wish to be with me?” he murmured in her hair, his tone soft and appealing. He was breathing heavily. “I know a place we can go.”

She withdrew and saw that he was looking down on her with eyes that spoke of a necessity and urge of the blood no woman could misunderstand. Bending his face very near to hers, he was at the point where in the next moment he would have sought her mouth, but she instead spoke. At the first sound of her voice he flinched, though not visibly.

“Look not to me for companionship,” she said sorrowfully, but with a reproach to the sound of her voice that angered him. For a moment he stood breathless. His hand remained on her, but the caress had gone out of it. She could feel his hurt and unhappiness and knew not what she was to do with him. She was hastening away when he caught her back.

“Why?” he asked, perplexed. “I have not met your equal,” he said, intimately, believing perhaps she required reassurance of his devotion. She was unreceptive, and he began to fear now that she was capable only of pleasuring in things of the mind and would never receive him. “You will not have me?” he said, half-tenderly, half-bitterly, something fretful and appealing in his voice. “You do not desire me?”

It was his final effort. He raised his hand toward her lips, but she gently imprisoned it in both her hands. She would not take pleasure in him beyond common discourse. Her heart did not lie with him, therefore neither would her body. Elven kind were deeply committed to those they would make their own, and sought companions who desired to spend the full span of eternity with them, rather than those who would inconsequentially pass them by, giving a fleeting glimpse of joy.

She spoke gravely. “I desire that you should not suffer any hurt or illness and that you should know happiness.”

Slowly, he disengaged his hand. She had now made it clear that, whatever he was seeking, he would not find it in her. As she touched his face he strained away, feeling now that she had played with him.

She left him, downhearted and angry, standing alone in the middle of the bridge. The cold light of the moon cast lonely prospects into view, and he felt a vast emptiness all around him and in him.