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‘Fair she with hair of white winged-dove,
Handmaiden to wisest, kindest Love,
Who weeps each day from eyes of blue
Such tears as should shame the wildest wolf’
- From a Third Age Translation of "The Fairy Tales" by Branhalil, Kossith poet
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When time was but a thought, and in a vale that was neither near nor far, there lived a mage called Sanipkur, She of the Clouds and the Sky. Sanipkur was a healer of surpassing power, as well as an spirit of phenomenal beauty, with her white hair and arching ears and eyes of icy blue. It was said by many that looking at her face was like seeing the empyrean light of the very heavens.
Now, one as breath-taking as all that could not be without a lover, and indeed, Tyzeh was every bit as beautiful as she, and every bit as powerful. But unlike Sanipkur, who was a healer, her lover was a warrior, a follower of the Path that Knows Victory and full of fiery passion. He knew how to make his will manifest, and had pledged to use that will to fight against the enemies of his people. The day he went off to the Last Great Battle, they shed such tears and made such love as to shake the very Foundations of the World.
“Sanipkur,” Tyzeh said, “I may leave you this day, but I make this Oath to you - I will win this battle, and when I do it will be the end to all wars. Then I will come home to you and we will build our heaven here in this vale and under your tree. Here shall we raise our castle, here we shall sow our seeds, and here shall our children be made and born and grow.”
These words gave Sanipkur hope. As a healer, Sanipkur would not go into battle with her love. Healers did not shed blood. Blood was a holy substance, meant only to bring life. To spill so sacred a thing was anathema to Sanipkur and her kind. To the beasts of the wood and the field, they always have thanks, always apologized for spilling blood and taking a life to sustain their own.
“My love,” Sanipkur said, “Your words give me hope. Here shall we raise our castle, here we shall sow our seeds, and here shall our children be born, so here I will wait until you have returned.” They kissed. Sanipkur watched Tyzeh ride off until he was over the hills and beyond her sight, and though she had faith in his words, she wept at his absence. She shed so many tears a pool formed under the swaying branches of her tree, and the water was both salty and sweet.
So for time beyond Ancient time, the beautiful white-haired healer Sanipkur waited under her agéd tree, crying into the pool, waiting for her lover to return. Her only solace in her sadness was healing the sick and restoring the injured. They came from all corners, from all races and even animals - she healed whomever came to her valley.
So too, did many men come seeking Sanipkur for herself, the poor and the plain, the rich and the fair, great kings and little ones, and men of no title and great nobility. Many came and tried to make Sanipkur to forget her lover, but none could win her favor with their gifts and their trinkets, or their feats of valor in her name. She would smile, and she would thank them, but then back she would go to her tree and her pool that reflected the blue of her lover’s eyes.
One day, a human knight appeared to Sanipkur. He was exceedingly fair of face, with hair of ripe wheat and eyes of leaf green. As for form, he was exactly as one might expect a knight to be - tall and strong, graceful and masterly, and in spirit, magnanimous and brave. Galaad, his name was, and he was suffering a great affliction, he said. He had a broken heart. His lady now loved another, and no matter what he did, she spurned him.
Sanipkur was gentle, but she told him to go home, that nothing cured a broken heart but time and patience. But this knight had heard of the potential of her magic, her healing powers, so he was going to stay until she healed him. He was young, Galaad, and perhaps not so prudent or so temperate as a knight should be. But still, his purpose was pure, and only the Maker can say where the line is between perseverance and stubbornness.
At first he just hung about her, sighing. He would sing songs of sorrow or play dismal tunes on a pipe he fashioned from the reeds that had grown up around Sanipkur’s pool. Seasons passed like this, with Sanipkur paying him almost no attention other than to hand him food and Galaad following the mage like a melancholy shadow. But gradually, as he was truly a healthy young man, he got restless.
He saw that she had only small game for her stews, so he made a spear and hunted the large game of the vale. When he brought back his first halla, Sanipkur made him thank the great stag and make apology to him, which he did most graciously. Together, they prepared meat, some for now and some for later. Sanipkur made a hearty stew in her cauldron that fed them for a season or more. When they needed more, he hunted, always remembering to apologize and to thank the beasts of the forest for their sacrifice, just as Sanipkur taught him.
Eventually he noticed that she wandered far and wide, braving bear and wolf while looking for the plants and herbs to help her heal or to feed herself and her charges. So he dug her a large garden where she could cultivate them without so much trouble. Soon they grew herbs and vegetables, flowers and vines, fruiting trees and nut bearing ones.
After that he watched as she carried great buckets of water for the plants and the sick. So he dug her a well close to her garden. Soon the garden was so lush and beautiful that the great and little beasts of the forest would come to eat the delicate flowers and rare plants down to the ground, and that the wolf and the bear drew close to make their meals of them. So Galaad built her a fence of stone, with a gate of live grape vines to keep the beasts at bay. But when he was done, he planted more of the plants outside of the garden, for the stag and doe were not his enemy, and the bear and the wolf only to be avoided.
Every night, after she had watered her plants and fed and bathed the sick and injured, he asked her again to heal his broken heart.
Sanipkur, ever so wise, said again and again that the only thing that healed a broken heart was time and patience. Then she left by the garden gate and went down to the pool to cry for her lover.
Now time did not pass then as it does now, being new it was still learning how to tell it’s own story. Galaad and Sanipkur could not say how many days, or how long the seasons. All that can be truly said was that some time passed, and the two spent most days together.
When the cold winds began to blow again, Galaad feared for Sanipkur’s health, for who would heal the healer? Nevermind that he hadn’t worried about this before when the weather grew harsh, or that the people of Sanipkur didn’t feel cold, nor had she suffered any illnesses thus far, but whatever Galaad lacked in sagacity he made up for in resolution. So Galaad built her a little cottage inside the garden wall, with a spot for her workbench, a nook for her charges by the fireplace, a loft in the roof beams where she could make her bed among the drying herbs, and a place for him by the door where he could be on guard against the wolf and the bear.
By this time, the two had become friends. Sanipkur did not cry so often for her lover, and Galaad’s songs became less sad and not so dismal. Sometimes, Sanipkur spoke about her life before, when she was very young. Galaad most enjoyed these times, for she was almost happy then.
There, in this tidy cottage, with all the necessities met and all the needy cared for, did Galaad reveal his true gift. He could tell stories, all sorts. Stories of far away lands where the people were brown as cinnamon with hair as black as night, and the air smelled of spices and danger. Funny fables of beasts and men, or romantic legends with ladies fair or evil but always powerful. Tales too, of great pirates on stormy seas battling with certus or kraken to save the noble lady or the plain one, only to have his heart broken when she went home and married the prince or the baker. When he was especially full of Sanipkur’s good stew, he would spin yarns about royalty and nobility in all their strength and absurdity, their gravitas and humor.
One time, he made Sanipkur laugh with his little fable of the prince who was a wolf and a wolf who was a prince. And at that sound, Galaad knew his heart was no longer broken, for he loved Sanipkur, but he did not know how to tell her.
Finally, after season upon season of thought, it came to him. He wove for her out of grapevines and willow withes a nest to cradle her by the pool when she would go down to cry for her lost love. He lined it with moss and leaves and the long fragrant boughs of the pine trees. When he showed her the bed, he said that it was a gift to her for curing him because his heart was no longer broken, and that he could go home now knowing she was safe and comfortable.
All she said was that patience and time had done the work, and that she deserved no credit. He kissed the hem of her dress sadly and walked out of the vale, after all the seasons upon seasons they had been together, all the stories they had shared and lives they mended. He had hope she would want him back.
Sanipkur watched him go with a long forgotten feeling in her chest. She lay down on the bed, because she was sad, and prepared to cry. For days and days she thought she would cry for her long ago lover. But she did not. She thought only of Galaad and his plaintive tunes, his industrious building, and his funny tales. And then she cried, but before even the first of these tears fell into the pool, she knew her sadness was for Galaad and not her first love.
Immediately, Sanipkur sent the mourning dove to call Galaad back to her, holding on to the faith that in friendship he would return. Galaad heard the wings of the dove first, and then his song. In the bird’s call Galaad heard her ask him back, heard Sanipkur’s wish for him to come home. At first he hardly believed the cooing of the pretty bird, and was afraid that he would not be worthy of the ancient beauty. But then he knew he could not refuse the call, that he was enough for the challenge of wooing one so wise, and fair, and good. She had called him home, and he would come.
So he returned to the vale. He looked first in the garden, and then by the fire of the cottage, but did not find her. Then he knew she must be in his nest by the pool. He found Sanipkur there, curled in his bed, alight from within at the sight of him. “Join me, Galaad, and we will make Love anew.”
At the edge of the bower, Galaad went to his knees before her. “Beautiful Sanipkur, my love, my heart, I have never lain with a woman,” he said with a blush. “You are more than a fleeting passion for me. Please, will you make vows with me before the Maker of All Things?”
“I will,” Sanipkur said, taking his offered hands.
Galaad looked in to her eyes and said, “Be mine, Sanipkur, for I would love and cherish you for all the lifetimes of the world, even if the only one I may give you is my own.” He kissed the soft skin of her hand, the first passionate caress they had ever shared.
“You who nurtured and built, who gave up war for husbandry, I love you, Galaad,” Sanipkur said. “Before the Maker of All Things, I choose you and no other, until the cold of the grave takes you from my arms.”
Vows made, Galaad joined her in the bower, where many sweet caresses and soft sighs saw them entwined as one and reach delight as one, saw them become one, even this their first embrace. When Sanipukur began to grow round like the waxing moon, they were beyond joyous.
Soon the vale was full of the cries and laughter of children, and Sanipkur and Galaad delighted in the sound. Work had made them friends. Laughter had made them lovers. The Maker knows they would need a great deal of both as they enjoyed life in their pleasant valley.
Indeed, many children came to Sanipkur and Galaad the vale; they came beautiful and plain, absurd and grave, brave and humorous, wise and foolish, destined to lives both great and little. And Love was ever in their vale, growing strong as the shining sun, the budding plants, and the laughter of the children.
Eventually, when Galaad’s hair was as white as Sanipkur’s, he knew it was his time, for even though a healer’s will may put it off, as the Maker Wills, Death is a human fate they cannot fully overcome.
Galaad lie down in his bed, the nest he had made for her by the pool, those seasons and seasons past, and he took her hand. Around them stood their children, and their children’s children, and more, for each sought full lives of their own in the valley and partners from beyond, but for this moment, all had returned. At her hip snuggled their youngest children, twin boy and girl, who were barely weaned and most loved because they came as a winter surprise. He took Sanipkur’s hands saying to them all, “For my loves who may little remember, and for my love who will never forget, know that you have been my joy and I love you.
“While this valley is where I would choose to rest, please know that I want you all to go out into the world. If you honor me, you will see the world, be of the world, knowing always that I am here, in your safe place, where you may return whenever you need shelter.”
The toddlers he kissed, followed by their other children and their children’s children and more, until finally, Galaad and Sanipkur were alone.
Placing his hand on her cheek, he said, “No pining for me, Sanipkur. Not one more tear will I see you add to your pool. My eyes are leaf green, and I would have you see them everywhere - up on the highest limbs, along the low meadows, set off by colored petals and thorns and nettles, too. I am in the world, and so are our children. They are me, they are our love. Watch over them; Love begets love, all sorts. So too, for yourself, take pleasure as you find it, as we have always found it in our bed. And love again, Sanipkur. Choose again for yourself and be loved. It is my wish and my will.”
Sanipkur nodded through her tears, but her will too was strong, and her heart breaking. “I make you this oath. For a year and a day I shall mourn you with tears and sighs and sadness, for my love would have sorrow while I still remember your touch and live it in my memory.
“On that day after, I shall do as you bid me. I shall live again with our children, and our children’s children and more. My body may find pleasure, but unless I find your better or your equal my heart shall still be yours.”
He put his other hand on her chest to feel her heartbeat sure and true. In their many years together, Galaad had grown as wise as he was good, and was far more temperate. “Sanipkur, your heart will still be mine even if it beats for another,” he said, slowly. His voice grew a whisper, “I love you too much to feel this regular pulse all the time. Let it flutter and pound. My heart beats so long as yours beats. I live in your chest as much as in my own. When I am only spirit, let me feel love again, through your heart.”
He blinked slowly at her, as she nodded, weeping but smiling. They kissed softly. Then he closed his eyes and was gone.
Sanipkur wept, and her heart pounded with pain. Soon the children came and at the edge of her pool and under the roots of her tree they put him to rest cradled in his bed and covered with earth taken from their garden.
As Sanipkur let the last few pieces of rich soil fall from her hand she said, “Galaad, I will love you for all the lifetimes of this world, you who fulfilled vows another could not. This world and I are made the richer for it. No oathbreaker I, all will be as promised, but now my heart says not until the raging bear is my friend and the wild wolf sleeps at my feet will I love with a full heart again.”
In time, Sanipkur was as good as her oath. She mourned a year and a day, and then joined her children out in the world. She let her heart flutter and pound as it would, but never again loved anyone as kind and good and fair as her Galaad.