The Gladesville Chantry
You return for your final scheduled week of construction on the Gladesville chantry. Nova had said you had a month to complete the building before she would no longer support your efforts, and this is the final week of that month.
You do not reiterate your scolding from last week to your workers, as doing so would make it seem as though you did not trust them and be a demoralising factor. That said, you do watch them extremely closely as work begins.
This close watch makes clear that the friction between the two groups is somewhat omnipresent. It is not that events such as last week are common, but it is a consistent pattern. Rarely anything severe, it takes the form of sniping and sneering at the 'other' group and generally refusing to work with them.
Being the ever helpful sort you are, you immediately break the work parties up and force the two groups to intermingle. You have to go slowly to ensure that there is never a chance to get up to mischief while you are distracted elsewhere, but you consider that a low price for potential harmony going forward. An hours' work now can save weeks later, as they say.
Between your forced intermixing, and constant intervention whenever anything looks to be growing out of control, or if you notice seemingly insignificant interactions and have the time to, the groups settle into a grudging truce. You doubt they are exactly happy about the state of affairs, but you have made it clear that making it your problem is unpleasant for everyone involved.
Doing so does mean that you have to stay on top of any brewing arguments. Unfortunately, bringing the groups together forcibly does mean there are more opportunities for friction. Yet, with the skill you have earned over many long centuries, you manage to seem omnipresent. Always there to prevent a fight or argument before it can escalate.
This has an effect on the performance of the group more generally. You are often there to contribute advice or point out mistakes, but you are equally often busy dealing with other things leaving those who you leave behind to make the majority of decisions.
This mixed blessing means that until the end of the day you are unaware of how much progress is being made. Reports that everything is looking to be completed on schedule need to be take on faith, but your eyes fail to spot any significant mistakes. Even that blasted north wall is managing to come in seeming well.
At last the time has come, the end of the last day of work before you need to leave to deal with Xandar's family matters. You take a walk through the chantry, looking for any flaw at all.
The walls are all solid, even the internal ones that you had little to do with. The three floors are all perfectly safe to traverse. The stonework is simplistic, but functional. There are things yet unfinished. There's no statues, decorations or furniture, for example. You had hoped to get to those, but time means you must count on the Chantry to supply them.
The overall form however is exactly as you designed it. The grey stone building would not have looked out of place around Himring, though it is more dour than some of your kin would have preferred. To your eyes though, it is exactly what it should be, a monument to the beauty of stone.
Against all odds, Gladesville's chantry is finished.
Nova has lived her life until now on a very simple set of precepts. The Maker, the Chantry and Sister Elspeth, in that order. When she was given her current mission to convert the savage elf who had elevated himself to nobility, she assumed it would be a simple matter.
It has not been simple.
It is rare to find an elf schooled in debate, rarer still to find one who is skilled at it. Not unheard of, but rare. Meeting an elf skilled in political double speak, the careful manoeuvring of presenting a front that is beyond reproach who is also schooled in classical rhetoric? Unheard of. Those are the skills of nobility, and no elf has been nobility since the rise of the Imperium.
Even now, when she thinks of her humiliating argument with him, her mind twists in rage and shame. Being led about by the nose through some clever words to make her question her very beliefs. She grits her teeth and breathes until the waves of anger and shame pass her by.
Suffice it to say it is a time she would rather not think about.
Still, even that would not have necessarily been a problem for her worldview. Did she wonder if maybe the elf was in fact a demon in disguise? Obviously, she still does in fact, but that does not necessarily mean anything for the way she views the world. Her pillars were untouched, he was merely one more obstacle to them.
Then came that conversation in the mosaic room. How is she supposed to continue believing that someone is pure evil when they will apparently drop everything to make sure that someone they despise is not in danger or distress? Even if it was, as he claimed, mere hospitality, that does not sound like the demons she is familiar with.
Yet, even that could have been explained, desire demons could be charming when they wanted to be, and the bizarre lack of desire could be explained by him being a rare strain. When he came to her with his proposal for a chantry, it fit the pattern. She said she would only help if he built it and was confident that would be the end of it.
"I appreciate the trust you have displayed." The being calling itself Nelyafinwë says. "You may now open your eyes."
The building stands tall and proud. Dark grey stone and a black roof should make for a menacing building, but the actual effect reminds her more of cool shade on a hot day.
"I am most eager to hear your thoughts on the design." He continues. "I confess it has not quite matched my desires, so feel free to expound upon its flaws."
Nova cannot speak. It is beautiful, yet simultaneously unique. It lacks the breathtaking stained glass and gold of the chantries she would consider the most beautiful, but despite being an empty building made of stone only, it is breathtaking.
It is made in a roughly circular manner, and the roof comes to a dome that she knows must be difficult to design, but it is the inside that really takes her breath away. Despite being solely heavy stone, the ceiling almost seems to float on the air, cleverly suspended by mechanisms she doesn't understand.
"Nova? Is something the matter?" Nelyafinwë asks.
It's real. It's real and its beautiful. A work of art to the glory of the Maker. He has already shattered many of her preconceptions by helping her with Sister Elspeth's struggles without even asking what they might be, and now…
If she strains her ears she can just catch the sound of her world falling apart around her.
"I'm fine." Sister Nova manages to struggle out.
"Are you certain?" The creature asks.
"Yes." She hisses. "What were you talking about?"
"I was concerned that you would critique the lack of furnishings." Nelyafinwë continues, as though oblivious to her internal strife. "Since you have not yet commented on the matter, I hope you are willing to discuss the best manner to divide the work."
Nova glares at him, certain that he is being patronising. For a time, she manages to listen to the inane drawl, but eventually her emotions overwhelm her.
"Why?" She bursts out.
"Well, I am aware that a great deal of what the chantry requires is quite expensive, solid gold suns for example. I had hoped that there was some kind of backroom supply deal that would enable the Chantry to foot most of the bill at a reduced cost." The creature responds innocently.
"Don't play games with me!" Nova shouts, her voice echoing off the pillars and bouncing around the dome. "Why are you doing this, any of this? You hate the Chantry."
For a fraction of a heartbeat, only noticeable due to her extensive training, she see the pleasant mask slip to reveal something cold and furious in the expression of the creature. Then, in less time than it takes to blink, the mask is back.
"Firstly, I do not hate the Chantry, I am indifferent to its existence and desires." He replies, mildly chiding. "On the subject of why I built this? The people of Gladesville wanted it."
"Really? You went to all this effort, built an enormous chantry for an organisation you are 'indifferent' to because these villagers wanted you to? Do you do everything they want?" Nova asks scathingly.
This time the fractional shift on expression is, pity? frustration? It might be both actually. Whatever it is it moves far too fast for Nova to truly discern.
"In order of your questions, yes I did and no I do not." Nelyafinwë says tiredly. "There were other reasons, the building is built in the style of my homeland and a part of me hoped to recapture some of echo of home in the structure."
"More importantly." He continues before Nova can speak. "I built it to serve the people of Gladesville because they are under my protection. I understand that among humans it is common to see nobility as nothing but yet another path to ever more power, but I was always taught that the foremost duty of the noble is the protection, housing and care for those they govern."
Nova frowns. His voice sounds sincere, yet at the same time she finds the words, strange. Though the creature's tone suggests that he is making some condemnation of humanity in general, it is not touching on any of the normal elven talking points on humanity's 'cruelty'. His claims of nobility are quickly dismissed, it is the claim of every noble that they are the only one who actually cares for their people.
Yet, as she finalises some details in a haze of distracted thought, and begins to leave, she overhears the villagers talking excitedly.
"Can't believe we've got such a grand chantry in our village!" One woman exclaims.
"Good to finally have somewhere the young'uns can learn about the Maker." An old man grumbles around his pipe.
Many such sentiments ring in Nova's ears as she travels back to the other building allegedly constructed by Nelyafinwë. In it, she can see many differences, yet also a number of similarities rendered in far lighter stone.
As the Sister begins to write letters to her contacts in the Chantry, she thinks on the strange being that she lives with. Her thoughts continue late into the night and come to no satisfactory conclusion.
The Templar
Xandar sits astride Calaternén nervously. The two of you have ridden for a few days to reach the Circle where Knight Commander Greagoir lives. Understandably given the situation, Xandar is nervous.
"Are you ready?" You ask the human.
Xandar swallows and nods his head.
"Will you be safe here while I send message to the Knight Commander?" You continue.
The apostate glances around, looking for Templars. You had not seen any when you did the same thing a few moments ago, but you do not begrudge him his need to check.
Eventually he nods again. "I don't think they're going to be able to abduct me in time. Though, perhaps if they use those mushrooms that let them control people's minds…"
"I can guarantee that there is no mushroom that can control your mind. Unless you allow it." You assert.
Xandar looks sceptical, but says, "If you say so."
There is a boat that takes you out to the Circle, which stands in the centre of the lake. You go alone, as you doubt that Xandar would feel safe in the Circle, and it would be a poor decision to bring up something as potentially embarrassing as the secret child of the Knight Commander in the heart of his power. Instead, you will organise a meeting somewhere in the nearby village.
To meet with the Knight Commander, you first have to explain yourself to a door warden, then to a mage, and then to yet another Templar before finally you meet with a secretary.
"Let me see." The officious man says, looking over a tome of dates. "I could schedule you sometime next month."
"That is much too far away. I was hoping for some time in the next week." You repeat in frustration.
"Well, he does have an hour free in the afternoon, but I'm afraid that will have to be a meeting here, if you need him to leave the Circle, that takes time. There's travel to arrange, lodgings and so forth." The officious man says primly.
"I want to meet him in the village on the lake. It is a fifteen minute boat journey." You force through gritted teeth.
"Well I can't help you then. Outside meetings must be notarised at least a month in advance, not to mention travel expenses…"
While you are contemplating whether you could escape the consequences of murdering the annoyance, the Knight Commander himself enters the room.
"Ah, Steffan, I need you to clear my schedule for the week following next, I forgot that the Harrowings are coming." He says distracted. "Who's this?"
"I am Nelyafinwë Maitimo Russandol." You introduce yourself before Steffan can. "I was hoping to schedule a short meeting with you."
"Well, Steffan has my schedule, I struggle to keep track of it myself. I think I have some time this afternoon?" The Knight Commander responds.
"There is a slight problem, I am afraid." You say. "Due to the nature of the discussion, I believe it would be best held outside the Circle, however doing so means waiting several months."
"Ah." Greagoir says. "I understand your frustration, but you must realise that it is not a simple matter for me to leave the Circle, even for a short time."
"You misunderstand me." You hurry to explain. "I wish you to step just outside the Circle, onto the shore of the lake, as there is someone who wishes to speak to you but is leery of being ambushed by Templars if they enter this building."
"An apostate?" The Knight Commander says, eyes narrowing. "What could they possibly want with me? To set up an ambush of their own perhaps?"
"I feared you would believe that, hence why I intended to allow you to select the meeting place and remain with you until the hour of the meeting." You state. "As for the purpose, it concerns my student, Xandar."
"Xandar?" Greagoir breathes quietly. "The apostate that evaded the Seekers?"
"Yes. He recently met with Sister Summer who mentioned something only you are capable of confirming." You explain.
The Knight Commander stands like a statue, emotions you cannot identify flying across his face. Eventually he sighs heavily and rubs his forehead.
"I will meet you at the shore by the boat at sundown." He says heavily. "I will expect to see only yourself and the apostate in question."
You incline your head and depart. You have a few hours to spend with Xandar, steadying him and preparing for the inevitable, as well as running through how to act if Greagoir should claim he is not Xandar's father.
While you do so you also decide on your approach for this meeting.
You and Xandar approach the boat on the shore of the lake. The setting sun reflects off the water even as it stains the sky, creating a world of orange and purple all about you. A group of half a dozen Templars stand by the boat, hands on weapons.
You feel Xandar tense beside you at the sight, but you are not concerned. Your keen eyes are far less impacted by the bright light reflecting from the west and off the lake. In the centre of the Templars you can see the Knight Commander, looking at Xandar with a complicated expression.
"Remain here Xandar." You instruct him. "I shall go ahead in case this is a trap."
Xandar glances at you nervously but seems to draw comfort from your presence. He nods. You wait a moment to see if he intends to speak, but he says nothing. You step away from him and approach the group on the shore.
"Knight Commander Greagoir!" You call out, a good fifteen paces or so from the group. "We have come as requested, yet I see you have brought a squad of Templars with you. Have you decided to take unilateral action against my charge, in defiance of your own order's decision?"
"Do not question my honour again, boy!" The Knight Commander growls back. "I came prepared for an ambush, merely as a precaution."
"Then shall we step away?" You ask. "Find a more comfortable and private place for this discussion?"
"One moment. I have a scout checking the area, and preparing the place where we will speak." The Knight Commander says.
For several long minutes you stand, bearing the suspicious stares of the Templar with the best grace you can manage. It is a point of personal pride that you barely ever resort to Turko's strategy of imagining embarrassing ways to kill people who annoy you, and you do not plan to do so now.
However tempting it may be.
Eventually the scout returns, reporting that there is no ambush, bringing with her a woman in chantry robes. The woman in question then leads you, Greagoir and Xandar to a nearby chantry.
You are shown into a room within the otherwise empty building. It looks like some kind of ritual area, though what its purpose is more specifically is a mystery to you. The door shuts behind you with a loud sound, demonstrating its relative thickness.
Though you act unconcerned, your hand rests lightly on your sword and you can see that Xandar is also tense. At last, Greagoir turns to face you and the robed woman moves into the background.
Nothing is said for a long moment. For a short time, you are tempted to allow this to play out at Xandar's pace, but quickly decide against it. Knowing him, the young man will immediately insert his foot into his mouth, and it is your duty to prevent that sort of thing.
"Let me begin by extending my thanks to you, Knight Commander for agreeing to meet with us." You say with an inclination of your head. "We were told by Sister Summer that Xandar's father was a man named Greagoir, given the circumstantial evidence of our last visit here I concluded that man was you. Was I correct?"
You can see the temptation to disagree flash across the human's face, but a glance at the woman behind him puts an end to it.
"You are correct." He says bluntly.
"Really?" Xandar says. "You're my father?"
The Templar glares at him. "I am not in the habit of lying, nor of repeating myself."
Xandar hesitates, clearly uncertain of how to proceed.
"Xandar." You ask. "Do you remember what I asked you when we met Summer?"
"You asked a lot of things, teacher." He replies, distracted by your words. "Which one are you talking about?"
"What is it that you hope to achieve here?" You ask once more. "I am always willing to help with your goals, but I cannot do so without knowing what they are."
"Which is the kind of question you should have asked before you came here." Greagoir says, irritated.
"Raising a child is rather different from training a soldier." You reply chidingly. "You cannot treat conversations like this as military operations, complete with briefings."
Your rebuke lands more sharply than you intend, and a flash of anger and shame passes over the Templar's face.
"I guess." Xandar says slowly. "I was hoping to get to know my father, to learn what he was like. I've never really had one before."
Greagoir winces, clearly uncomfortable. Fortunately for him, you are present to pick up the slack in the conversation.
"Well then, clearly we only have one option." You say.
"I think Xandar deserves to hear the story of how you and his mother decided to marry." You state.
"We're not married." Greagoir growls.
"You have a son, that means…" You trail off. "Wait, this is one of those human things where you mean something different when you say marriage, is it not?"
"Marriage is a ceremony performed by the Chantry to make a union official." Xandar supplies helpfully.
"Then what do you call the act of making a child?" You ask absently.
The Knight Commander is giving you a look like he thinks you are wasting his time. You give him a look with a great deal more nuance, essentially saying that there is no shame in not knowing something, and that it is best to clarify before continuing. The Templar looks deeply confused, presumably by your immense skill at silent communication.
The woman coughs pointedly. "Perhaps we are drifting off topic."
"This is my, two, three, fifth language." You count absently. "If we are to discuss the matter, I should know how to express it."
"It's not something discussed in polite company." Greagoir says firmly. "Let's just say it's the story of how we met."
"Certainly." You accept, taking a mental note to ask Merrill later. "Now, it would be hardly fair to demand you share something without a return, so would you care to hear the tale of what Xandar has done since he escaped the Seekers?"
Greagoir glances back at the woman. A moment of silent communication sees him turn back with a sour expression.
"That's acceptable." He says heavily. "Who should begin."
"I would suggest yourself; Xandar has a tendency to wander off topic." You say.
Greagoir grimaces but nods. "It's not much of a tale. I met Sister Summers on a retreat."
"Forgive me." You interrupt. "What do you mean by retreat. My understanding is that word means the military manoeuvre."
"It's a time of silent prayer and contemplation in an isolated place." Xandar says. "It's a 'retreat' from the world."
"I see." You say. "Forgive me, please continue."
"She was there to minister to us. I was restless so she took me aside to chat." Greagoir explains. "She was pretty, intelligent and full of ideas. It's been a while since I had anyone to talk to about that sort of thing. Most Templar don't care and most Mages don't trust me much."
The old knight sighs. "It was stupid, a childish infatuation far beneath both my position and age. That it resulted in Xandar was bad luck on our part."
Xandar does not flinch, exactly, but he does look akin to someone who has been struck. For your part, you still feel as though he has missed part of the explanation, but you assume that is because it is more human strangeness.
"I did my part, now you do yours." Greagoir growls.
Xandar is clearly still processing what he has found out, so you step up and explain how you came to meet him and the events that led you here. You detail a number of things that you assume a father would want to hear of his son.
That you would want to know about Elrond.
Greagoir seems largely disinterested, but you catch the woman behind him listening intently. Eventually Xandar recovers enough to detail his time with the strange hermit and what he did with him. Frankly, you think that you have traded one dull tale for another. Xandar's life was interesting in microcosm, the moment to moment challenges of survival, but broadly it is 'I lived in a forest with a madman for a few years'.
From there any further attempts at conversation die in the cradle. The sun sinks still further and the woman mentions that if Greagoir does not leave soon he will be missed at curfew. That puts a final end to the conversation.
On the trip back, Xandar seems disturbed, so you ask him what the problem is.
"I guess, I don't really know what I expected." He says quietly. "I guess I thought that meeting my father would make something clearer. That it would help me understand myself, but it didn't."
You remain silent as Xandar gathers his thoughts. "I guess I always thought that he'd turn out to be part of the conspiracy or some kind of long lost lover. Being an accident, feels like an anticlimax."
Xandar stares up at the setting sun and asks, "Teacher, what is the purpose of life?"
You turn Xandar's question over in your mind. It is not something you personally have ever given much thought. From the day you were born you always knew what your purpose was. Yet, you doubt Xandar is asking for something so specific as what role in life suits him best.
Many thoughts of how an incarnate is 'intended' to live life present themselves to you. The calm comfort of the simple life, of warm hearths and warm relations has an almost siren lure to most beings, and you yourself find your heart longing for it.
Yet, this is not the purpose of life, for some are born for greatness and must face the cold harsh consequences of such. Naturally, your thoughts then turn to the words of your grandfather. That your family does not define you, that it is your responsibility to take the power that has been granted you and make the most of it.
The words dance on the tip of your tongue, comforting in their nature, none would question Finwë's wisdom after all. Yet you do not utter them. Those words were for a young Noldo struggling with the fact that his best friend was the son of his father's hated enemy, not a young human lost on his path.
"We are all brought into the world by the hand of Eru, and it is he who gives us purpose." You say slowly, picking through your limited understanding of philosophy. "Be compassionate, show mercy to the weak and judge the mighty fairly. Repay loyalty with loyalty, act always as though the eyes of the world were upon you."
"Why?" Xandar asks. "I mean, I get that's the right thing to do, but why? Why does Eru want us to act like that?"
For a time you are silent, working hard to cobble together an answer from half remembered conversations with the Vanyar.
"Eru wishes for the Flame Imperishable to bloom, as far and wide as possible." You state carefully. "It is these actions that nurture it, that help one to see the flame in those around them, to tend not merely their own, but others. Or so I think, it has been some time since I last spoke of this."
For a time, Xandar rides in silent contemplation, for your part you review what you have said to find if there are any glaring errors that must be corrected.
Suddenly Xandar asks. "Teacher, what is truth?"
"Namó, Xandar!" You cry in frustration. "I can barely explain the purpose of life, you cannot simply expect me to immediately follow that with an explanation of one of the most controversial subjects of istonolmë[1]!"
This comment leads into a lengthy discussion of the branches of philosophy, of linguistics and deep confusion on what the term istonolmë means in Thedaslta. It is a thoroughly engaging discussion on concepts you have strong feelings on, but less information than usual, which means Xandar can actually contribute. It is not a bad way to pass the ride.
Meanwhile back at Endataurëo
"Merrill. What is the term for the creation of a child?" Nelyafinwë asks.
The elf looks at him, red racing up her face. She attempts to stutter an answer, but faints before she can finish.
The Noldo looks down at her collapsed form.
"Why are humans so completely brazen in their relationships, yet so bizarrely reticent about speaking of them?" He asks a nearby mural.
The mural does not answer. Because it was a mural.
[1] Lit: The study of knowledge. Epistemology, the branch of philosophy concerned with what can be known.