Ruminations on a Marble Corpse

[Ferd0207 214]

 

RUMINATIONS ON A MARBLE CORPSE

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To forget my poor-born nation,

father’s grave, and mother’s cry;

those who steal by noble station

from the crust that feeds the wry.

 

Steals from the hungry peasant,

base tradesman, low and sly;

merchant, gold-thirsting, ever present,

and noble with death's own liturgy!

 

Rob him, rob him, senseless creatures!

Rob him! Who will block your way?

He will not rise soon, poor creature:

We all sit with cups today!

 

We shout - but once our heads grow clearer,

we forget our words and vows,

mute, we laugh and draw no nearer

to the people’s holy shrouds!

 

“To you, the rulers of Haelun’or, I say this. 

Your claims do not make you needed.

To you, the people of Haelun’or, I say this. 

Do not listen to the tyrant who declares themselves your king, for bondage is your choice and our people ought never choose to be slaves. 

Love not the speaker, but what they teach to you. 

Love not the Sohaer, but what that Sohaer provides.”

 

Othelu Orrar

Haelun'or'leh Sohaer

 

 

Penned and issued by the hand of Antelian Acaln’sae;

The 6th of Malin’s Welcome, Year 288 of the Second Age

 

To all Elves who carry yet the burden of inheritance, and to the Regime of the Silvered Cavern of Taliyu’lin:

 

 My beloved kin,

 

 A people is preserved not by survival alone. The beast survives by feeding on the cadavers of the dead, so as the humble farmer survives by raising his sustenance from the soil. The coward survives by fleeing his comrades and adversaries alike, and the tyrant survives by the silence of the people he governs. A people is preserved by virtue and refinement, by remembrance and continuity. Such was the charge of elHaelun’or.

 

 Haelun’or was not, and is not, merely a name, but a covenant spoken. The living testimony of Larihei, Our Torch in the Dark, who led our people out of the decadent, stagnant halls of Malinor and by whose inheritance the Mali’thill have lived for millennia. Haelun’or was a judgement spoken upon those who dwelled behind its marble walls, beneath the proud shadows of its spires which touched the sky. Haelun’or, my kin, was the expectation that the Mali’thill will forever seek advancement, health, greatness. ElMaehr’sae Hiylun’ehya. 

 

 This was the soul of Haelun’or. Words not merely spoken, remembered and repeated until the mind was dull from their echo, but the very whetstone by which it is supposed to be sharpened. For how are we to secure progress without question, without debate ? In this essence, Scrutiny was the very essence of this which had for thousands of years elevated the Mali’aheral - for it was through Scrutiny that the very blessing of the Golden Pools had been bestowed upon our people in times most ancient. 

 

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 A nation has a body. Walls, halls, armies, government, laws, magistrates, citizens. It, too, has a soul. The soul of the State we call doctrine, tradition, philosophy, art, memory, civic virtue. Legitimacy. A state may yet lose its body - its walls can be torn, its halls torched, its armies destroyed, its citizens - butchered and its laws nullified, though it may survive if its soul thrives, if it's preserved by its people and its continuity - ensured. Likewise, beloved followers of Her Torch, a state will perish even when its banners flutter high and its armies stand strong, shall its soul decay and diminish.

 

 Our people have been massacred and driven out of their homes, forced to seek the embrace of caverns deep and unwelcoming, finding refuge where rats and beasts would be more welcome. Some would name this as the disease, yet I call it merely its ugly expression. The disease began when we abandoned this which made our Motherland ours, this, which tied it to the very essence of what it is to be Mali’thill. Once the Sohaer was elected, answerable ultimately to a people of sharp mind and sharper tongues still, and the Maheral was the highest steward of our culture, the living embodiment of Larihei’s Will, it was the Maheral which was tasked with keeping us on our path of disciplined progress.

 

 Yet now this which dons the mantle of the Silver State and wears its name as a cloak that shields it from all question is ruled by a leader unelected, an appointment made after another, called necessity and yet crystallized into habit. Unnamed and unspoken, as if the Blessed Elves are dull, blind and deaf. An insult unvoiced and a judgement afforded in the silence of the accused - the People. Fallen to the rot of complacency, the Mali’thill have forgotten what it is to question the powers that be. Forgotten the sacredness of debate and the righteousness of a harsh word spoken at the proper time. In such we have perverted our democracy, distorted our customs and ultimately given way for decay to set within our minds.

 

From this followed the ancient strength of our people - curiosity, contest, public scrutiny. Debate. For elMaehr’sae Hiylun’ehya, for the very concept of Progress, requires refinement. Refinement of the mind, of the body, of the tongue. And refinement, beloved children of Larihei, demands challenge, scrutiny, and question. These were the very foundations of the Silver State, the cornerstones by which the Mali’thill have suffered and thrived both, and have gone from age unto age stronger than before. For they never feared to call into question the actions of their superiors, to ask by which merit decisions were taken and by what law was authority maintained. And there lay no treachery in such questions, for a state which cannot survive inquiry is merely a gilded tyranny.

 

“It is thus that we must cultivate institutions that demand excellence as duty, and not merely celebrate the exception.”

 

 The Blessed Citizens were never meant to be muted ornaments in silver halls, made pure merely to bow more prettily or taught to read only to recite the words of Larihei with no thought. They were entrusted with reason and duty, made to be masters of their own fate. To obey without question is the habit of slaves, same as understanding without judgement is the habit of cowards. Yet to contend, to reason and to demand excellence in all things - this is the dignity of the Mali’aheral, for our kind was born of contention. Hitherto debate was no mere indulgence of the mind, but rather the whetstone of the nation, by which governments forged their policy and rulers - their authority. 

 

 And herein we may begin to discern the sickness that at present ails our people. For we now receive question as insult and name dissent corruption. We correct the citizen’s love for the Motherland into safer language, and thus do not answer debate with argument, but dismiss it by fear. 

 

  Mayhaps our people would have continued treading the path of false hopes, fear and cowardice masked as scholarly pacifism had it not been by the insult levied upon the name of the Motherland by the regime of Veralya Wynasul. For when a returning Blessed Citizen, found in joy for the prospect of the Silver State’s reclamation, put upon paper the Motherland’s blessed name, it was crossed out and edited. Moreover, Veralya Wynasul found herself, seemingly, possessed of authority enough to not merely to strike out this most blessed name and covenant, but to rebuke the one who wrote it by calling her “short in tail of years and in memory too brief”. Thus am I compelled to ask the false Sohaer plainly: does she know whom she so addressed ? Was she aware that the woman she so chastened as some sentimental child is a Malaurir, having lived past a hundred summers before Veralya Wynasul drew first breath under the Stars of Celia’nor ? Mayhaps the labour of amending memory itself has so taxed the false Sohaer’s mind that she has forgotten even the humble science of chronology ? Mayhaps time, too, needs editing.

 

 For many a year our people were paralyzed by fear not only of external enemies, but feared humiliation levied upon them by their own rulers - the raised brow of councilors, the cold displeasure of those donned in the mantle of high office, the ruin of reputation by gossip and lies. Thus did they learn to swallow judgement and thought long before it reached the tongue, and in foolish cowardice called such prudence.

 

 Yet finally one person who sat in comfortable high office finally spoke, because fear for the future of the Mali’thill preceded fear for one’s own name and skin. With her words the matter could no longer be dismissed as the bitterness of an exile, disgraced and banished. It could no longer be accused to simply be the mutterings of those who lived outside the renamed halls of the Silver Fantasy. Atlyn An’asul spoke from within the very confines of the order which now trembles at the very mention of its forefathers’ name. She held office within the very government she rebuked, having every excuse, as lesser souls reason, to remain silent and confine her thoughts. Yet she asked aloud what many buried within themselves:

What is Taliyu’lin, if not Haelun’or ?

 

 This question is central, for the Tilruir posed not merely a problem of semantics, but of law and history. By which authority are the Mali’thill now governed ? By which authority is justice dispensed, and debate redacted ? By rite of what ancient custom of ours is election dismissed ? For is it not true that when our name is struck from the page, our Sohaerate passed on by appointment, our remembrance is redacted, censored and chastised, and our questions met with suspicion, every Mali’thill of reason must ask what remains beneath the silvered veil ?

 

 Let none insult the dignity of Atlyn An’asul by claiming her words were not penned under her own quill, that they were lent to her from another’s hand. Their truth, and their severity, were her own. Their consequences shall be hers to bear also, for the burden of truth must be carried by those courageous enough to speak it aloud. Yet they matter precisely because they were her own - and because an Elf who had rediscovered her spine now finds herself condemned by those who have none.

 

 Let none be mistaken that this is exactly what has since transpired. Instead of answering a civic query, even if sharply spoken, the regime has instead decided to strike down its own citizen, believing itself able to castrate others in the same crude manner it has mutilated itself. Instead of being answered with an argument, Atlyn An’asul’s question was met with condemnation, accusation, exile and disownment. Severance rather than debate is the new language spoken by the illegitimate government of the Silvered Cavern. Yet exile does not answer question, and disownment does not refute argument.

 

 Yet, a Sohaer may be accused of being illegitimate. They may be accused of an honest mistake in government, or of listening to crude advice. It is then the role of the Maheral, our highest cultural and spiritual steward, to correct and where needed - reprimand the Head of Government, even if such is illegitimate. However what is to be done when it is the Maheral which issues the amendment of memory ? How is the citizen to react when it is the Maheral who forbids the name of the Motherland from being spoken in the open ? The conclusion is clear to all - when the Sohaer errs, the Maheral is to issue correction. But when the Maheral claims error as his will, then the sickness has reached the very altar of Our Mother. The Maheral has answered question with accusation, and the old convenient shadow of my name.

 

 Let him do so. I am long accustomed to being made the cupboard into which frightened rulers place every loud noise they do not understand. Let every failure be given my face, let every courage be named the result of my corruption. Let them lay every tremor of their hollow halls at my feet. I begrudge them not their little comforts. Yet no slander spoken upon the names of those who question will elect Veralya Wynasul. No exiled dissident will afford the regime the legitimacy it so needs. No erased name will return our dead from the ground in which they lie, laid there by the folly of complacent fools.

 

 The Maheral has also deemed the Tilruir’s query worthy enough to call her to stand before the Silver Tribunal of elPariran’tir. How curious are the causes for which Arasdir Miravaris finds it proper to waste the solemn time of the Blessed Citizenry. When last Atlyn An’asul was dragged before hollow judgement, branded a traitor and forced to endure the shadow of execution upon her back, it was for the grave crime of refusing to shoot an arrow in my back. Now the Maheral, in his contempt for debate, seeks again to chain her before the Tribunal of his own illegitimate government, not for colluding with enemies, as has he by his own testimony before myself, but for asking aloud what every citizen of what now pretends to be the Silver State has already queried in private. 

 

 Yet even here we are tasked to pretend at lawful solemnity. For if the Sohaer is unelected, then what assurance have the citizens that elPariran’tir will not be appointed and likewise carefully curated to suit the purposes of an illegitimate, dictatorial regime ? Further, even if election is held, what assurance have we that such will be nothing more than mere fraud ? Can an illegitimate government convene a legitimate tribunal ? How is the court of law to convene under the name of the very maheral that has already defiled said law, and openly admitted to doing so ? Thus do I counsel Atlyn An’asul plainly: she owes no allegiance to a false court and no performance to a circus pretending at judgement. Let the regime first prove its own standing before presuming on weighing hers. Let Veralya Wynasul show the authority and law by which she governs, let the Maheral answer the questions he has so eagerly and eloquently buried beneath accusations. Let elPariran’tir prove the law by which they presently govern to not be morally hollow. Until then any citizen will do well to not lend her dignity to a state and court whose first task is judging the very hands that assembled it.

 

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 My kin, I feel I have afforded enough attention to what Atlyn An’asul’s crime is not. Yet it remains my duty to shed light upon where she truly has erred, upon the true reason she is a danger to the security of the Silvered Cavern. Her crime, Blessed Citizens, was not treachery, but sight. She beheld what many laboured not to see: that the Silver Massacre may have butchered out kin, it may have laid many an Elven child in graves too early, and it may have set our people awander. Then our weakness was shown. Yet in those halls the Valah blades did not slay Haelun’or. That was merely the wound that exposed blood still flowed beneath. The Motherland bled out after, not executed or butchered or hanged, but quietly assassinated in Larihei’s own Silver Halls, with quiet spoken word rather than a dagger and with the glistening fear in our kin’s eyes rather than a noose. 

 

 Having thus weighed the loss of election, of debate, the correction of memory and the erasure of a name, I am compelled to thence state the bitter truth without delay or delight: Haelun’or has ceased to live as a state. Haelun’or is well and truly dead.

 

 Taliyu’lin’s Silvered Caves may yet endure. They may flourish, even. The Elves therein may cower for centuries under the shadow of Valah blades and they may dissolve their spines like sugar dissolves in water. It may trade and tax, its citizens can live and make merry in hollow festivals and idle games whilst  their mothers lie beneath the earth, attended by worms more honest in their nature than the ones who pretend to rule in their name. Yet they shall not live in Haelun’or, and they shall not be Mali’thill. Not in any true sense of the word. For where Taliyu’lin is an administration most mundane, Haelun’or was a covenant most sacred, and its abandonment is an irredeemable, irreconcilable act from which none may return.

 

 However the death of Haelun’or does not abolish Larihei’s charge of excellence and refinement. Of elMaeh’rsae Hiylun’ehya. The failure of institutions and the flight of cowards does not erase the duties they were charged to embody. Maehr’sae Hiylun’ehya now falls upon the hands of those strong enough to truthfully bear its meaning. And its meaning is clear, crystal to all those who have eyes to see and ears to hear - discipline over indulgence, memory over censorship, refinement through debate, and Elven survival through strength and unity.

 

 Let it be known that what the trembling hands of cowards and opportunists have dropped, shall soon be picked up by ones steady enough to carry it.

 

Maehr’sae Hiylun’ehya

ilMaehr’sae Ilkun’ehya

 

 

Antelian Acaln’sae

elTalonnii Acaln’sae Laurir

elIhnsilonniran Halerir’thilln

 

[Atlas Got Cubed 51]

The gilded missive was quick to fall into the pale grasp of one Atlyn An'asul.

 

With a solemn gaze did she look upon the words of her mentor, and quietly read his conviction.

As she read, the sentiment that laid behind his words seeped into her mind and solidified into her heart.

 

It was a shame, she thought, that even her beloved maln refused to acknowledge what they both could see. It shattered her more still, when it was his hand that drove her from their home, alongside shunning looks from her kin. Yet it was her mentor that rose to her defence, that continued still to uphold Larihei's memory and disseminate her teachings unto his pupils.

Her blackened fingers rested upon a weighty bag by her side, containing all that she could manage to carry after she heard of her disownment.

Several charred letters littered the floor of Inverlael's keep, words that she had intended to send to Adorellan, yet could not in memory of the look in his eyes the last time they spoke.

The elfess would heed Antelian's counsel, no more words would come from her concerning this matter until Veralya Wyn'asul was capable of proving the legitimacy of the state she governed, and until Arasdir was capable of proving that the tribunal he had called her to was not merely a farce.

 

Until then, the shared responsibility of upkeeping the meaning of elMaehr'sae Hiylun'ehya, and ilMaehr'sae Ilkun'ehya, would remain in Atlyn An'asul's silvered hands, alongside those of her Larionnan'sil and Malonnan'sil.

[Widu 536]

Liewyn Miravaris let his gaze traverse the missive, pausing now and again. "Now that's the name I haven't heard in a long time," he murmured, a knowing smile playing upon his lips. "Keeping you alive, are they not, Othelu?" His eyes slid swiftly further down the parchment, “Ah, musings upon the Silver Soul, could this be Braxus' worthy disciple?"

 

After a time, the elf sighed in disappointment, "Is this the issue of our kin's scarred history, or merely the feeble workings of a darkspawn's mind? A cry for democracy, followed by invocations of the Princedom's perverted motto and the name of the Uthir. A summons to debate with a refusal to stand in one, even beside the Most Blessed himself. To say nothing of the want of any clear subject, nor any grasp that progress is wrought through inquiry and not accusation. A shame." 

 

"Another pretext to proclaim the death of the only immortal idea." Soon the parchment was buried beneath documents of greater consequence as he resumed his work, murmuring, "Iyath'ante ito Haelun'or, Maehr'sae Hiylun'ehya."