Chapter Four:

The Long March...

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Three years had seen many changes, and now, once again the seasons grew cool. As the maiden walked up the cut stone steps back to the patio of her father's home her translucent blue-green gown shimmered in the growing morning light. She breathed in the salt air from the sea below. It picked up her spirits. Gazing down the wooded mountain side, back onto the buildings of the city, she remembered her life growing up in the grey havens of Mithar. Being deep in thought, she became lost in the rhythm of the incoming waves, as they washed in and out upon the shoreline. Even though her mother, the seventh grand daughter, from the line of Gala`dir; had died during childbirth; Velwyth had always felt - somehow - depressingly responsible.

Lately, so many things seemed grim to her. Even death was no longer seen by her people as a release. But had become a curse to the nephilim; the result of having to learn a mortal life, apart from their sacred lands. At least that was the 'comforting news' she was given by her Valithdane priest, Leo`dema. The 'magicks' of their ancient forfathers had long since passed. Even the true meaning for many of their most prescious customs were lost; or shrouded in the mystical, and ever changing, teachings of their Steward's religious sect.

Her brother, Calan, silently approached, and joined her near the balcony to watch the waves enter the empty harbor. She gave him a melancholy smile. Calan was tall, well built, and an extremely confident person. As children they were very close, and often shared secret dreams of sailing off into the west themselves. He peered into her eyes as she returned a warm smile. Calan had deep feelings for his sister, more than a fondness toward his sibling, but a desirous, growing obsession. Calan had not only seen her bathe several times, but had even confessed his secret desires to lay with her; which she only dismissed as childish fancy. Today, sadness veiled her thoughts. She remembered the day when Feandar, their younger brother, left after a confrontation with their father. Adding to her saddness was the death of her father, four months later.

Calan became bitter, and blamed the ill health of their father on Feandar's departure. But, for now, Calan could only rehearse those sensual appetites over in his mind again, as he brushed his sister's golden hair with his fingers. Then he gently embraced her; she needed the warm comfort, and did not resist his strength. Quietly the sun rose on the darkening waters of Mithar.

As a breeze swept a chill over her, Velwyth turned to seek the warmth of the house. Calan bent slightly, and tenderly kissed her on the mouth. She pulled away. Then she suddenly found herself against the wall, as her brother continued to be more aggressive in his attempts of affections, and not backing down.

"No." She struggled to say. "We mustn't do this. It is unheard of... Calan you are my brother!"

He held her wrist tightly, then slid a hand over her mouth, supressing her screams as they both fell to the tiled floor. His lust found no words, as his sister became but a thing to be had. He found his way beneath her gown, and forced himself upon her. She struggled, which only made him even more vigorous. Their eyes met. Terror and lust. Her resistance subsided, then a slumped moment of rest. He withdrew, and stood up to secure his clothes.

As he looked down at her, he saw in her eyes the look of vengeance. There was something in the way she stared up at him. A defiance behind her tearful expression. Her maliscious expression faded as his unrelenting stare bore back at her. She plotted his demise, but the pain of the humilation from his eyes made her recoil back into her sheltered thoughts. He won, for she turned away pale, broken, and frail; Velwyth wept to herself, knowing that no one would come to her aid. After he raped her he went his way as though nothing had happened. As if suddenly empowered to accomplish some great destiny, he was compelled to speak with the Stewards. Velwyth, on the other hand, slowly gathered herself together; and from that day onward never again spoke in public. In her silent torment she sought no solace, and refused the concern of others. She became an unremembered person.

Further inland, deeper within the city, was the Great Hall of the Stewards - where Mithar's governing body resided. They had grown into a powerful ruling class, and those who clung to them, did so out of fear, or the desire to rise in political clout. The Order of the Valithdane also convened in that Hall, but their main house of study was within the Tower itself. A weather beatened, whitewashed reminder from past glories; Varlendur, 'Tower of Strong Friends.'

The Valithdane were a religious sect who stressed purity, by abstinance from outside contact with other races. However, they seemed to always overlook the fact that they themselves were the descendants of two diverse peoples. It was the Valithdane who discouraged the people from independant thinking, and the Stewards used that mindset to their own political advantage. The Order re-interpreted their failed expectations, of their Ancient forebarers imminent return. In the light of some newer hope, or more recently devised prophecy, the people were kept off balanced, and obediant to their leader's fear induced demands. Yet, their new hopes only bred more distrust, and frustration over their forgotten 'truths'. However, no one had ever come against them, though many grew weary of their heavy taxes, and suppressions.

It was in the climate of this growing contention, that Calan wished to stir up their worst fears; weaving in his own vindictive plans. As Calan briskly climbed the stone-cut stairs, leading up to the ornately-carved doors of the Great Hall, he saw the bold figure of Gil`Barad, his childhood friend. He stood leaning against one of the columns, watching a group of young ladies near the base of the steps walking by. Earlier he had been rejected by the perttier one, so he started in on one of her friends, who just smiled his flirtations off, waving as they talked about him under their breaths. His friend slapped his arm, bringing him back to his senses, "What no good are you up to?"

Barad noded toward the giant doors behind him, with a smirked grin of dissapproval, "Just waiting for their business to be over." Calan shifted his weight forward, but waited, "Yea? Well, maybe we should make our own."

Barad only smirked. Calan drew closer, and whispered over his friend's shoulder, "Finally got a taste of that sweetness; she was worried about Feandar - so I took her mind off of him." He knew his friend, would appreciate that sort of news, seeing that he too had wanted his sister for years; he only replied with arched brows, and several approving nods. Though he was a little upset, he focused it otherwise. Barad sneered, unfolding his arms, "I remember how your brother always thought himself better than you," Then with a slight stomp, "If I could, he'd be under my boot right now." Noticing how Calan was biting the inside of his cheek, a sheer sign of his growing anger.

"He broke father's heart with his foolishness." Calan squinted his eyes, then through pursed lips, and gritted teeth, "I tell you now, I will make it possible for your boot to be happy."

Then, their mental image of him squirming about made them both laugh sadistically; thinking Feandar a timid boy with no will of his own. Gil`Barad sarcasticly injected, "No telling where his 'king' led them off to."

"I have an idea, but it's going to take more than the two of us to bring them down."

Barad nodded toward the doors, "True, but those weaklings in the council have no idea how to stand up for themselves." Then he began to follow Calan inside.

Calan gripped the spiral door handle, before he pulled its full weight open, glanced at his companion, "Well, maybe they should be told, 'eh?" Then he entered.

The brief hallway opened onto the high ceiling of the ornately-crafted dome. The air was filled with smoky whisps of incense, as several lit, bowel lamps flickered in the dark room. The huge chamber, absorbed the voices that echoed off the walls. The dwarven designs of the stones had been lavishly redecorated with a curved relief along the darkened walls.

"...We have thusly calculated their arrival to be fourteen years from hence. With all asurrances being laid upon this new light, we should be vigilant to prepare..." The high sounding rants of the speaker made the two men entering share amused glances.

Another elder stood up to interrupt. He had been given a scroll from a messenger, and was commenting on it. "Scouts from along the Nuyaldim river arrived with news that a second assault against the city has been planned. Soon this word will be circulated among the people, and panic will be ramped." Then with a condescending glance to Leo`dema, his displaced seated college, "This, is what we need to prepare for."

With that Gil`Barad cleared his throat, to get their attention. He stepped down into the lower circle of the room, centering their attentions solely on himself. They all recognized him as the eldest son of Gil`Ered, one of their own, "My Lords, long have the rivals of this chamber strived to serve the purpose of our people; however, our fall is immenent, if there is no real power to discourage dissent. Such as that one who has drawn our brothers from our midst." Implying the Nol-Varin exiles, who left two years earlier.

Leo`dema felt like he was being attacked, jumped to his feet, "The Order was founded to encourage patience in waiting for the arrival of the Ancients." He sounded passionate, but his anger waved in his hand, as he gestured toward the tower's direction.

As he entered, and now stood alongside his friend, Calan calmly spoke over their rising murmers, "Yet, there remains that one who pretends kingship over you; Valen`Fae. Reguardless of all your disagreements, this one issue effects us all. He must be forced to return, and face the justice of this wise Council."

Trying to rally support from his own followers, Gil`Ered injected, "Notwithstanding - the Stewardship of our people was established to safeguard its heritage, even from those among us who would see its fall. I agree with you, young Calan; that that renegade must be brought before us, and this rebellion quelled at once." He was a friend of Celmur`kien, and realized the intentions of the two youths.

But, Leo`dema realized their sentiments as well, "Even so; the Valithdane, can not be seen as supporters of such murderous acts; we will await the arrival of the Ancients with clean hands."

The large open sleeves of Gil`Ered swung back and forth as he angrily pointed to Leo`dema, "Your protection is guarded only by our stance; if you no longer wish it, then you may follow him who also fled into the hills." Others nearby grew louder in their agreements, and accusing fist slaps.

Yelling over them, Leo`dema stood his ground with, "We will not flee, for it is at Varlen-dur that we will ever remain; nevertheless - never the less, let justice fall onValen`Fae, as upon a brother. For a king must be chosen, not declared."

As the elders argued among themselves Calan's thoughts strayed. He wondered about the lives of those founding fathers, those ancient Watchers. Now, that he had finally been admitted into the Great Hall, Calan was able to see the detailed chamber in person. There, memorialized in their burial shrouds, as a relief of molded silver, the Watchers themselves decorated the walls. Their errier, silent likenesses commemorated the end of an erea - the passing of Nephilim immortality. But had they as individuals been befitting of such high honnors? Were they as righteous or wise as the stories told? Who could tell for sure, for they had all died years ago, and surely their deeds were overly exgsaerated?

As Calan listen to Barad drum up support for an army, he surrveyed the faces of those vain Stewards, in their embroided layers of robes, cords and bells; beautifully set in their bitter pious ways. He thought it strange how the light from the tripod lamps cast a creepy, orange glow across their faces, and how they resembled the morbid figures standing behind them. Then it came to him - the Stewards were nothing more than a reflextion of the Watchers own dead values.

How - just moments before he and Barad had interrupted their meeting - they would endlessly argue among themselves over the conjectures of past predictions, and make future speculations on the arrival of those who would never return. Calan thought it all sillyness, 'Wasting their lives in such foolish disputes; they're just as cold as the stone benches they sit on!' Yet, they would be a means to his end.

For deep in his heart he plotted his own cold plans of hatred. Calan had always craved retrobution against his brother. His father's only fault was how much he loved Feandar. Calan knew that, while his father still lived, nothing could have happend to his brother; his father would not have endured any news of his loss. So, he waited.

But, had he waited too long? Even now, in the years of his absence his little brother continued to draw more attention than he himself. "Patience, timing is everything." He told himself, "For, now was the time for restraint." He dared not show that vindictive side to these small minded leaders, wraped in their own high and mighty notions of righteiousness. Now was the time for an even grander vision to unfold.

Calan knew he would have to charm his way into their fears, in order to aquire his means. A slight grin came on his face as he thought of hunting down Feandar, to put him in his place. An even broader smile came as he imagined his hands squeezing the breath from his brother's neck. Suddenly Calan's thoughts were jerked back to the present when he noticed the nodded wink. Barad motioned for his leaders to calm, "My Lords... My Lords, the growing storm still approaches, regardless of who rules here."

Which made way for the quiet Calan to step in with, "Masters of Wisdom, I beg you to allow me to persuade those approaching, rabble armies that it is not you, but rather those dissented forces, that they desire retribution against." That seemed to have gotten all of their quieted attention, as he contuinued. "And in turning them so, that army might be inclined to retrieve Valen`Fae, to kneel before your Graces." He bowed slightly, stroking their egos. The room burst into debate once again. Having sufficiently stirred the hornet's nest, Barad and Calan left the chamber feeling quite pleased with themselves. Outside, they sat on the steps awaiting some type of response. Moments later, both of the bronze inlaid doors flew open as the Stewards, Valithdane, and Chamberlain aids flowed out; still arguing and bustling into the streets below. Gil`Ered moved over to the two friends, smiling. He put an outstretched arm on both of their shoulders, and beamed at Calan, "Well boys, prepare yourselves, and make us proud. You set out tonight."

At dusk, Calan rode out onto the battlefield alone, as the full moon was bright on his white banner of truce. When the two captians of those armies of men and trolls were agreed, he approached. Calan persuaded them to pursue his brother's king. "For, he is a traitorous lord who betrayed his people, and even now seeks malice upon your own lands. In truth it was he, whom you wished to contend with over the loss of your sons."

Fear overcame those feeble-minded captains, realizing they had in fact left their homes defenseless. The men believed the nephilim messenger, and turned back. Siezing his opportunity, Calan assembled his forces from their waiting positions in the north. Assuming the mantle of lordship over those three armies, he drove them far into the eastern plains of Eriduah. However, when the trolls began to notice the approaching wastelands of Orid they soon became disinterested in the affairs at hand. With the rising sun of daybreak on their heels, they refused to advance any further. Instead they ran in fear for their caves among the hills.

It was here when the brutality of Calan began to manifest itself. With an unexpected swiftness, the nephilim army suddenly appeared and turned against the men. As betrayal was realized too late, twelve hundred were massacred. Those few who remained alive were whipped into the chains of slavery, and driven futher north like beasts of burden, a relentless three day march with no rest. On the fourth day, beneath a blazing sun, they arrived, cresting the wind-blown dunes.

Calan ordered Gil`Barad, now his captain of the guards, to have the captives posted under watch where they would be able to observe the slaughter.

Below, tents encircled the oasis, as children played among the livestock, while the women were washing clothes or cooking. Horns blew as a revieled wrath fell upon the unexpecting innocents below. They waged their dark terror out of the sheer delight of being able to do so. Animals were gutted with no thought of meat. Screaming children were torn from their whipped mothers; as tents were burned and spoils were taken. Oil was ordered to be poured out upon the water's surface and lit. The bellowing flames roared into the night; seen as far away as the Grey Havens.

Amid that chaotic confusion, Calan called for silence. The host parted as he directed his words to the men held captive along the sandy ridge.

"In my youth our fathers were abandoned by the Ancient Ones, and left here to perish in our mortality." A crying woman huddled near another began yelling curses; Calan himself shot her in the forehead with his bow, then unflinchingly continued. "We will take these daughters as our own, to reclaim our immortality through them! Kill these useless whelps, and wipe out those who bred them."

The remaining men held captive had their throats cut, along with their sons. Their bodies were thrown onto a pile, and burned. The stench of those bodies, and the rotting of the animal carcasses remained forever in the memories of those women. They screamed and wept after their husbands, while they were led aways as captive; hands tied, almost draged behind the horses. The waste of Orid was afterwards called Gehun-dah, 'Place of the burning death'.

With a few spoils, and those bound and dejected women, Calan returned to the port city with his twisted version of the story. How he overcame the men but had lost the trail of the exiles. The Stewards hailed his triumph. They pledged their support for Calan, and conscripted an even larger army to follow him. They drew up plans for scouting parties to search for those who fled two years eariler. Yet, with each year that toiled by, Calan grew even more cunning, and greater in power.

Chapter Three:

The Brothers...

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During the war Feandar served in the priesthood, as an appretice. Learning the candle rituals, secret names and uses of herbs, and ancient lore were fasinating to him. He was taught the memorial prayers of the last Watchers; the burial songs of their founding fathers. Yet, in the Valithdane sect, the students were given a shadowed version of the Watcher's Book; for none of them were given access to the book itself. As ministeral students they were to accept the word of their teachers without reservation. However, after the war, Feandar questioned many things said to have come from the Founders Book. Because of this, he had began to question his teachers more openly. They in turn rubuked him, and had begun to withdrawn from his family, spreading whispered rumors against them. Feandar's attendance at Varlen-dur became sparatic at best, which upset his father, who had hoped he would obtain full dedication within the sect; in time he stopped going altogether.

His brother, Calan; however, had fought on the frontlines during the battle, and had seen many death's first hand. Knowing that his younger brother had not been exposed to such horrors was one thing, but his attitude against the war was another. It only added to the division between them. Yet, both sons loved their aged father very deeply, in their own way, and frequently met in his home for evening meals.

Two weeks after the new king's declaration, Feandar could not stop talking about how the Stewards were still outraged by the news. What did surprise him, was how his former teachers were offended that someone had stood up against the ruling party. Feandar himself, on the other hand, thought it was a wonderful idea to have a king, "Finally, someone with a vision to lead the people."

As his sister, Velwyth, cleared the evening table he noticed how unusually quiet she was. She busied herself, and hurriedly tried to stay out of the way - secluding herself in the kitchen. Feandar, and Calan remained seated at the long dinning hall table with their father, Celmur`kien; in front of the great window which looked out onto the bay. Facing the west were two huge rock clefts that faced one another, like great bookends. The bay waters emptied between those clefts, out into the Great Sea. It was said the dark waters hid treadious dangers, which no one dared to sail beyond.

During super Feandar had told his father that he wished to serve in the new king's court as a squire, and that he had dreamt of the Elder fairy lands since his youth. Now, that he had become an adult, he desired to return there, and see them for himself. But, his childish sounding comments went unoticed. So, he resigned to sit back in his chair awhile, sipping his wine in thought, listening to his brother's escapades against the trolls. As Feandar sat there, being overlooked by their conversations, he wondered why his brother, and father were so eager to take the Steward's side. Then a deeper thought came to him.

Suddenly, Feandar interrupted their discusions with his own topic, one he thought was surely at the heart of everything. His father's brows grew stern in the direction of his son's intteruption, but he listened anyway, "Father, I can no longer accept the version of 'Truth' metered out by the Stewards. The Valithdane are puffed up with pride, and speak as though only they have the right to have opinions and interpretations about the Watcher's Book. "

Celmur`kien had once been a city elder himself. Scratching his head - whose his hair had turned gray long ago, and now was beginning to thin on top - he put down own glass. Then, beneath fine strains of silver, his eyes thined in offence to his son's comment. He laboured an inhale, as the many lines of his pursed lips drew in another long breath, "Then what is 'the Truth,' son?"

A little suprised that he had actually been heard, Feandar stumbled for an articulation of his ideas, "I - I don't know, father. But, I do know we arn't being told it." His eyes stared glassily through the air; as his thoughts grasped at a smoky concept, "There is - something not quiet right." Then turning sharply, he continued, "Father, have you never noticed that every few years we are given a different version of our history; or, a new explanation for the war?"

The elder statesman's shaking head cleared away the naive talk of the youth, as Celmur replied, "I see. Well, now, let me tell you 'the Truth' then. Son, if after all these years of study you have learned nothing - know this. We are indeed 'the sons of God', and as such, should act accordingly. It would behoove you to show more respect to the Elders of the Great Hall. For it is they who enlighten us with the accurate knoweldge of our spiritual food, given in due season ..." Suddenly his heavy weasing became too much. Celmur began coughing again. All through dinner it had afflicted him, and now it came on him with a furry. Sprinkels of blood soaked in his towel made it obvious that his condition was worsening.

As if in his defense, Calan leaned in closer to his father, rubing his back. "There, there father." With an upward cut, he looked back at Feandar, "Enough of this - this foolishness, little brother. You've gone too far." After offering a drink to their father, who had regained himself, but sat quiet. Calan continued, "I sugest that if you have any more questions, or doubts you should go directly to the Council itself. Because, if you do not, such talk as this will find us all - shuned in bansihment." Looking back into the face of his approving father, Calan smiled.

Feandar, on the other hand took another draught from his goblet, then continued. "The reason why you think they know so much, is because you know so little. Have you forgotten, father, that it was you who sent me away? For nineteen years I struggled under the tutelage of the Valithdane priesthood. With their unbreakable conformity, to think only what they commanded. Father, their teachings are greatly flawed; and this one who claims kingship over them will free us from such tyranny."

Celmur`kien was angered by his son's talk, and desire to leave, but it was his eldest son who again voiced their father's displeasure. "To take part in that murderer's malcontent would be despicable; especially when the return of the Ancient Ones is yet at hand!"

But Feandar felt pride in his people's strength, and rebutted, "We all owe our allegiance to him. For no one else displayed his worth with courage, nor stood against that which is false."

Celmur`kien's anger flared as he stood, "To do so is apostasy against the Order! If you do this you are dead to me." Then he burst out in an even worse coughing fit.

Feandar did not look at his father, but at his brother, "So be it; we have our own paths to follow." He pushed his seat aside. As he left the table the chair fell over, and he headed down the long hallway while his father and brother continued their heated exchange of words. Just outside, near one of the great, spiral pillars, his sister, Velwyth, had overheard everything. She embraced him, and whispered her sorrow at his leaving. Her tearful eyes remained in his thoughts as the great doors echoed behind him.

Feandar walked alone on the beach of Mithar; as he watched the sunset shimmer upon the gulf waters of the empty harbor for the last time. He knew in his heart that he had crossed a point of no return in his life, but grappled with how his clarity of vision was not seen by others in his family. The empty harbor's weather beatened, neglected piers seemed to validate his decision to leave. 'Old ideas die hard,' he thought, as he paced the shoreline. Throughout the night he watched the wheel of the sky slowly turn. He welcomed the dawn with sleepless eyes as his convictions were resolved. By morning he had walked along the quiet streets, through the main gate, and found his way into the tent city of the Nasil. A guard lead him to those who had gathered around the new king, and swore an oath of service to him.

When Valen`Fae recieved word of the newcomer, he realized the hard, yet honest, decision he had reached, he accepted the youth into his court. Then, in a feast, the King honored Feandar with a toast, "Tomorrow we shall withdraw from these Grey Havens to venture upon an errand worthy of song. For our cause is just. Behold! For even among us comes one from the very House of the Stewards themselves. He has sought to be a lowly squire, but I do now appoint him as Bereith; a Scribe of the highest order. For he shall rcord the renewal of the Nephilim, in the world of lesser men!"

Chapter Two:

The Battle of Mithar...

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The ancient sea port of Mithar lay along the western coastline. Though it had once been a vital ship haven for the various races of Eriduah; most of its origianl inhabitants had left long ago. The remnant who did stay behind were unable to maintain its grandure, and soon the city fell into disuse.

Then, out of the desert wastelands, a nomadic people had begun to settle along the outskits of Mithar's abbondoned walls. They had roamed the deserts of Eriduah as a wayward people; desendants from the Barkuian Empire, of the far east. The Nasil were a simple folk. A docile people, whose highest art form was in tatooing their language on their bodies, crafting elaborate tent designs, raising children and tending their camels.

For fifteen years the settelers had been ignored by Mithar's small band of inhabitants who lay silent. Yet, in time, the Nasil began to intermarry with the people beyond the wall; who taught them to be fishermen, ship builders, and scribes. Their offspring came to be called the Nephilim, and became renown for their high craftsmanship, and as teachers of ancient wisdom.

Seven years after Feandar met the stranger, the words of Meirith began to unfold.

For, out of the forgotten lands of the east, an envading army advanced. As the once rumored, Barukian Empire showed themselves to be a reality; The Great Lands had begun to fall under their shadow. Filtering through the dense woodlands, like flees beaten from a carpet, as they gathered up boar-trolls for alies. They were hairy, primitive creatures; manlike, with boar heads, and raviness hearts. Though dim wited beasts, their own agressive natures were easily persaded to join the cause of men. They had been bribed with hopes of being reunited with their cousins in the certral foothills, of the west. In their march, they slaughered all in their way, with an unrelenting brutality. Both day and night, through rain or shine, they viciously fought any who stood against them. Then, after corssing the river Nu'yaldim, they entered the north-eastren plains of Eriduah. Even the farming villiages of the halflings were overrun, and destroyed by the Easterners, as their inhabitans fled north. Then, with the arrival of those two armies before the very gates of Mithar, the passing of the nephilim age had begun.

Without even an emasary, to carry demands or warn of doom; the invaders slammed against the outter encampment of the city with a barage of flaming arrows. With them came barbaric war crys from hammer welding men with painted faces; followed by the deafening scretches of spear toting trolls. Among them swarmed hundreds of swordsmen, and a host of fighters who filled the gap.

The innocent inhabitains could barely squeeze through the slow shutting gates, as those shut out, pounded with screams of desperation. They were silenced to death, as the gate's timbers shook against the battering ram. Yet, the gates themselves withstood the enemy. War had come.

For weeks the three main gates held them back, till the center one was finally battered down. When their weapons failed, the nephilim soon fought in hand-to-hand combat. Fear and panic set in among the people. In six weeks, one hundred and fourty-four thousand citizens lay dead, as five thousand fought to surrvive. Still, horriffic and deveastating as it was, the people carried on as best they could; digging in, rationing food, and burning hundreds of their dead - in efforts of warding off desease.

During the course of fortifing the city, a single event changed the tides of war. A nephilim, named Valen`Fae, discovered a hidden passage beneath the city's Great Meeting Hall. In his atempt to conseal the women and children from the invaders; ancient secrets came to light. For, behind a sealed doorway a wealth of armor, and weapons were discovered. An array of swords, pikes, and spears were found. Along with bows and arrows; all of which looked as new as they day they were made. But most intreging of all, was a single book; which told the histories of their forgotten people. The lore of those Ancient fathers who refused leave in elder times.

With these findings, Valen`Fae rekindled their willingness to fight for a new beginning. However, in the very mist of of his ralling speech the goverening Stewards and Valithdane priest, argued over the meaning of those relics. But Valen`Fae had no paticence with their endless dribble, for he could only see that a war needed to be ended.

Indeed, only after another two years of bitter bloodshed did the war finally come to a close. Astonshingly, the Barukian lead forces were worn down, and eventually repeled back into the desert plains. Scouts, and camps of the Nephilim were posted to ensure the peace; however, the threat weren't too far from their thoughts.

During the reconstruction efforts, Mithar's political strifes brought new divisions among the people. The final straw came on the last day of battle. For, a lone warrior stood on the embattled walls of the city, and removed his beaten helm to yell his victory. His cry was awe inspiring, as he thrust his sword into the air.

"Aaagrrh! Behold! We still live!" As everyone below the crumbled wall turned to watch, they begun to cheer in celebration with him.

"Listen to me, you children of the Ancients Ones, I am Valen`Fae, fourth grand-son of the Watcher, Fae`Lorin. Again have we survived those who wished to crush us." As the people gathered closer, their cheers grew louder. "Hear ye well! For on this day, I hereby declare myself as King - of all those who wish to set out for their forgotten realms." Extending his arm behind him, and pointing toward the uninjuried tower of Varlen-dur, he shouted angerily, "No longer shall we yield to those who are dogmatically yoked to their own short-sightedness, and vain hopes. No more shall I allow myself to be pulled down by their fears! Draw close to me, all you discontented ones, who want for a better life. Rejoyce in finding peace within yourselves. For our real hope is only a breath away."

In that moment three hundred and thirty cheered his bravery, and joined his cause. They beat their lances upon the ground as they chanted his name. From there, beyond the walls, Valen`Fae set up his own tent, among the ruined emcampment of the Nasil; many of whom became his followers. For those who gathered about their new king were encouraged with the desire of redefining themeslves, and making their own history. A renewed beginning had come.

Yet, the Steward's power waned over many, but had not fully failed. Mithar's Great Hall still had power, and it would continue to grow in its power for revenge. Nevertheless, from that coastal harbor a divided people withdrew. For to them, their final refuge had become a shadowed city, which decayed into a den of mistrust, and deceit.

Chapter One:

The Storyteller...

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"Father I realize it's only been three days, but you still need to eat." The body of his dead wife lay bound in a thin white shroud, with her head in his lap. The slender figure of a man - weary from grief and fatige - sat with his back against the darkened wall of the cave. His graying long hair fell over his shoulders, and down his tuniced back. With only the slightest hint of pointed ears peering out; his high arched brows accented a sad youthful face. Yet, only resently had his adult daughter begun to notice his age.

As IL`brekah crossed in front of him, she took a seat beside her father. She tried to find some way of reaching beyond his three days of silence, "Tell me about how you met." It was strange watching him caress her dead mother's covered face, she thought to herself. She almost cried, for he had devoted his entire existance to her mother, and now that she had passed, he looked like a wasted shell of his former self. "Where did you came from? You've always been quiet about yourself - why is that, father?" As a way of not letting her mother go, she found herself strangely caring to know more of him, as she gently rubed his back. She was almost startled by his movement, as he turned to look into her eyes; for he hadn't moved in days either.

"Where shall I begin?" His dry, whispered words sounded odd, scarcely like his own, as it broke again, "For such tales have many beginnings, each older than the last..." His words trailed off, as if his memories had been absorbed into the shadows of the cave. The air was still. His grey-blue eyes had taken on that uncomfortable, silent stare.

Other than the light beaming in from the opened doorway, no other bathed the chamber. As he began to speak again, she listened intensly to the songlike rise and fall of his voice. Her thoughts became entranced with his story, as she watched suppended dust particles drift within the faded beam of light.

* * * * *

The hazed light turned the sky grey, as if it had wanted to rain all day. But by the time his classes were over, the skies had cleared into a beautiful mid-summer's day again. His father's home was on the other side of the city, along the northern cliff, perched with its own view of the empty docks below. By the time he had reached the old marina, evening fell.

Every afternoon he left Mithar's weathered, grey tower to walk home alone. Now, it was near dusk. The shoreline along the bay was his favorite route to take. Feandar enjoyed looking out upon the gulf waters - while the shrimpers fished in their rickety boats, and the setting sun made a mjestic backdrop. Feandar, which ment 'beloved-brother' was his mother's name for him; in an attempt to foster better relations with his older sibling. Another reason for him to enjoy his solitary walk home - an excelent way to end a stressful day. Today was no different than any other; however, unknown to him everything was about to change.

As he made his way home, he rehersed the events of the day over again in his mind. More and more the student was becoming disillusioned with his teachers. His head was full of questions, unasked and therefore unanswered. He knew for sure the elders would have admonished him immedintly, and changed the subject. Had he raised anything remotely resembling 'disbelief' they would have turned the whole incident around to where he would have been made to feel foolish. So, he just kept quiet, and tried to figure things out as best he could. For some reason the lessons made sence to him while he was there studing, among his peers in the watchtower's sheltered chambers. Yet, when he was left with his own thoughts, like now on his way home, the certainty of their doctrines unraveled in his mind. For instance, he never quiet understood why they were to be so excited about staying in the world, if it was true that their forefathers had once come from heaven. Or, why they alone were entrusted to be scholars and teachers to lesser men; or -

Suddenly, a group of annoying seagulls disturbed his private thoughts. Flocking overhead, and squaking for someone below to feed them. As he looked out on the long stretch of beach, Feandar noticed, several yards ahead of him, a dark figure, dressed in a heavy cloak standing by himself. The man's hood was up, and his back was to the approaching youth. The figure was intently looking down at the ground. Something in the wet sand seem to have gotten his focused attention, for he was using the end of his staff to poke at it. The closer Feandar came to him he realized that instead of poking, he was drawing in the sand. Presently, standing just a few paces behind the stranger, and almost looking over his shoulder, Feandar could see the details. It was the design of a bird - a crane. The stranger stooped over his drawing, and added dry, colored sand to its trenched lines. Then after some whispered words, and a few unusual waves of his hand, something under the sand began to move about, just beneath the surface. Suddenly a real, white crane burst out of the packed mud, violently shaking itself clean; looking from side to side. After a brief glance up at the astonished youth the bird flew off, into the direction of the shrimp boats.

The artist stood erect, and laughed aloud to himself as he slowly turned, acknowledging Feandar's presence with a smile, "Greetings, beloved-brother."

"H- How did you know my name?" The bewildered youth quickly asked.

"I know more about you than you think." The face, though covered beneath a smartly trimed beard, resembled the youths own; yet, the eyes bore through Feandar like peircing daggers. The strangers voice was warm and friendly, with a haunting tone, " I know you enjoy - hidden secrcts." He looked back at the disturbed sand-drawing, then at the scrolls under the student's left arm. "Like the crane, you too will achieve heights beyond the confines of that tower's shadow."

"You disapprove of the Valithdane Elders?" Feandar said as he took a wary step backward.

Smiling, the stranger stroked his well-trimmed chin. "I merely said that you will rise above where you are now. The days are soon approaching when all you know will change. The very world around you will cry for you to listen."

"Who are you, sir?" Feandar became very intrigued.

"I am Meirith." As he begun to walk away, he added, "Just a wanderer who journeys south to visit the dwarves."

"Dwarves? They're a lonely sort." Then, feeling a little apprehensive again, Feandar added, "We're not supposed to talk about them."

The stranger stopped, drew up his garments as if cold, and said, "To avoid people, young Feandar, does not mean they cease to exist. The dwarves knew much of your people - long before you were called the Nephilim. Remember the appearance of the Crane." Meirith smiled as he pointed to the skies over the bay on his right. He turned, then continued walking southward. Feandar quickened his own pace towards home. As the youth turned back around, with a fresh question in his head - surprised to realize he was alone on the beach. Alone, with even the stranger's footprints, and his sand drawing having vanished as well. A strange chill crept over him.

As the years went by that one incident stayed with him; and from that time onward his views of their traditions had begun to change.