Chapter Text
Left-With-The-Herons wished his mother wasn’t so picky when it came to the length of his robes. Touch-The-Clouds wished her son wasn’t so fidgety.
“For the last time, keep still. Time won’t pass any quicker if I have to redo my work!" she snapped.
“It’s unfair that I have to wear Penni colors”, he whined, pulling at the red fabric of the dress.
“Those aren’t Penni colors. Everyone wears red for the Night of the Flame.”
Every year, since the Scattering, Cuind, Penni, Kindi, Hwenti, Windan and Kinn-Lai, the six tribes of the Hisildi have gathered at the City-That-Dreams for the High Days. Six Nights of Remembering, and Six Nights of Offerings, and in between, the Night of the Flame.
The Night of the Flame! The Night of the Turning! The night of leavetakings and of new beginnings! The night where everything dies and springs anew. The night that bridges past and future. The night of all nights, the night that with a pillar of fire banishes the darkness. The night as bright as the day, that dazzles and burns and takes away regrets and consumes faults, restores innocence to the culprits and brings consolation to the mourners. The night where the First One, the Unknown One lit the first fire, and became the fire. And since that very night, the Hisildi, the ones who refused, the ones who remembered the stars, remembered the lights under the dark and vast sky, above the waters of Korvië-Neni, the ones who stayed, the Elves of the Twilight have gathered around the flame at the turning of the season, and have entrusted to the fire their secrets, their wishes and their regrets
Of course all of this was lost on Left-With-The-Herons, who was far too young to understand the meaning of the word “regret”, who was much more anxious to see the city, and for whom the Night of the Flame, his first Night of the Flame, was only something you do to be like the grown-ups.
“Can I go now?”
Forced to concede, Touch-the-Clouds put away her pins and needles.
“What are the rules all Hisildi must follow while in the city?”
There was no love lost between some of the tribes, and blood ran deep. Weapons were forbidden in the city but the words, mightiest of weapons could not be banned.
“To speak no word that isn’t true. To speak no word that isn’t meant. To write down the rest.”
“What are the rules every child must follow?”
“To listen to others and not to themselves. To say what is asked. To keep what is not asked.”
“And what should you always remember?”
“To speak is to do?”
“You are far too clever for your own good. Now go, but be back in time for supper.”
The City-That-Dreams was both the oldest and the newest city of the Hisildi. It was the biggest city of the Windan who lived in their trees. It was the windiest city of the Cuind, who dug their dwellings in the belly of the mountains. It was the most beautiful city of the Kinn-Lai, but that was slander coming from the Hwenti.
The Elders used to say that year after year the city sunk slowly into the ground. And year after year stone masons and carpenters and masters of trade from the six tribes added yet another building, another fountain, another staircase to that labyrinth of stone, wood and flowers. The City-That-Dreams was like a sprawling living creature, remaining dormant most of the year, except for thirteen nights, when it suddenly came alive and it sang and danced and cried and told stories. There were no streets, only stairs that went through trees, and wells and houses. No squares, only courtyards that opened to more courtyards. If you followed the levels, you were bound to get lost. If you followed the signs: the music, the flowers, the leaves, you would always find your way.
There was no other place like the city, no other night like the one that was coming.
Far too quickly to Left-With-The-Herons’ taste. During the Night of the Flame, those who wanted to would write words on scrolls of paper. Wishes, asks, worries, things to forgive and forget, and throw it into the fire. The fire took it and consumed it and you were free to start anew. Left-With-The-Herons was old enough to do it now, and for the life of him he could not find one thing to throw into the fire.
His father used to say “spoken words bind you. Written words free you. What do you wish to be free of?”
Lessons, chores, the frost in the morning when I have to pee…
None of these seemed appropriate, or grand enough for such an occasion. And the Night was fast approaching. They were almost through the Nights of Remembering, where the Hisildi would gather, sing and tell stories. The Nights of Offering, which Left-With-The-Herons preferred, with the dances and the gifts were soon upon them.
But that damned Night of the Flame!
The City-That-Dreams despite its name had no advice to give. And when Left-With-The-Herons found himself following his family to the Courtyard of the Flame, his scroll of paper was desperately empty.
“Think about who you want to be,” whispered his cousin, “and give it to the fire.”
“With your words, you will walk into the fire, and a new you will come out. Choose wisely.”
Who did he want to be?
Brave, that went without saying. Hisildi did not run. Kind, like his parents always said.
He thought long and hard and finally wrote, with the best penmanship he could manage “I want to be the best I can.” That sounded solemn enough.
The Courtyard of the Flame wasn’t how Left-With-The-Herons imagined it would be. He had pictured a solemn and quiet place filled with wonder and contemplation. Instead the place was bursting with life. Elves went and left in an uninterrupted flow, laughing, singing, joking, chatting. Some of them would not even pause their conversation to throw their paper in the fire. There were children running and couples kissing and one Winda was using his sleeve to blow his nose. Flowers, yellow and red twined gently around alabaster pillars, and stone decorations, more delicate than gossamere.
At Father’s invitation, Left-With-The-Herons went to the blaze, precariously balancing on the tip of his toes, and raised his right hand and threw his scroll into the fire.
The whole ordeal had taken less than five minutes. It was over. It was done and Left-With-The-Herons did not feel any different.
That’s it?
An anxious child had gone to the fire, a confused one had walked out of it.