BALTHENORN

 "BALTHENORN"

..(A Story for Mike Cope )...

In the old tongue, he was called Padalor, the Dream Walker. But in the later language of Sinquinto, Balthenorn. He embraced the sound of the new name more. Balthenorn was many things to many people and in the end was known as an adventurer of inspiration, for he inspired many who thought he had only touched their lives alone.

Balthenorn’s closest of boyhood friends was a Half-Fae named Fayendar. They were inseparable, twins to some, brothers among themselves. It was not that they had ever fallen out of favor with one another, only that life’s choices and paths led them both through diverse lessons to learn. Yet they always kept in touch through letter correspondences.

   Fayendar had received one such letter, one he thought was long overdue to his own replies; yet, nevertheless, he was enthusiastic to receive it. Being busy, but feeling ill the artist Balthenorn desired his friend to come for a visit to the village of Sinjar. Fayendar had not visited the city carved from living rock in many years. Balenthorn’s last letter made up his friend’s mind to make the distant trip, away from the demands of his own life. Fayendar greatly missed the company and stories of his dear friend. The trip by foot would do him good and allow him time to think.

   Leaving Lindol’s white marble terraces, oversized statues and many bubbling fountains for life in the near-desert conditions would be a challenging difference, but to see Balthenorn again would be worth the full day’s excursion. Leaving before daybreak saw Fayendar arrive at the Crossroad’s Altar, beyond the tent village of Slavath where he had stopped for a meal. The Nasilian villagers said that a trouble maker named Shay had disrupted the daily affairs in Mithar, but the people of Slavath revered the odd man. Fayendar had only just missed meeting him as Shay had left the day before, the Scribe was unsure if he even wanted to meet the old wizard in person.

   Continuing his journey toward the carved foothills, of the Blue Mountain’s western wall, Fayendar was glad he had brought his walking staff with him. The eastern road to Sinjar was less hospitable or cared for as most prophets and Witches came from the rock city. Most of those odd folk were not friends of the Mitharian crown. Fayendar loved the area but confessed to himself it had been far too long since his last trek there.

   Fayendar reread his letter from Balthenorn. He found himself audibly laughing to himself of his recount of falling into the Bay water and vowing to never net fish again! Looking up, the Scribe began to realize that he was the only one on the road. There were no wagon loads of goods or groups of colorfully dressed folk, with their strange traditions or chatter passing him. The usual migrants heading to sell their wares at the twin city’s grand Sibling market seemed to have stayed home, which indeed was a strange sight in itself.

   The details of the southern forest of Kinderval began on his right even as the foothills grew before him and on his left. The road curved and over the next rise, a few people could be seen gathering and heading for Sinjar. The closer Fayendar came the more crowed the landscape became with colorful wagons being draped in black. The tents that usually sprang up before Mithar’s grand Sibling Gate appeared to have sprung up in even greater numbers before the cut sheer walls of Sinjar. Many tents were beginning to have their bright banners replaced with black ones instead. Meandering through the growing number of people Fayendar caught a more somber mood over their usual festive tradition of constant music and laughter.

   Sinjar was a series of ramped stairs leading to the many, ornately designed doorways; all meticulously carved from the sheer face of the mountains that began The Great Blue. His friend Balthenorn resided in the middle of the fourth tier, a climb in the summer heat to be sure!

   As he began going up the first level, Fayendar saw an old blind man weaving a basket as passers Byers were dropping coins near him, “Old man, why is there no spontaneous market at Mithar today?”

   “Here now is yet another stranger’s voice who asks the same question! Lo, a rich man has died and the entire world has decided to stop in his honor. Are you the one they wait for?”

   “I am a nobody, and certainly no one of concern to nobles, the rich or famous,” the Scribe smiled.

   “The smile betrays your importance to those who know you, my friend,” the blind man smiled in return.

   Fayendar dropped a few coppers with gratitude for his time. The pathways, though broad, felt crowded with the movement of so many people. They were consumed in their conversations about how the dead man the city mourned for had influenced their lives with his compassion, wit, and wise words. They all sounded surprised that strangers had known him as close as they did. Fayendar awkwardly smiled or nodded as he passed among them, feeling like he was intruding in their personal lives. The Scribe questioned if he had come at the wrong time, ‘Maybe Balthnorn knows who they are talking about he thought to himself.

   After having climbed the remaining three sets of ramped stairs the Lindolian Scribe finally arrived at his friend's home but noticed many people were being turned aside from entering. Two men stood at the ornate doorway. Upon seeing him among the loud crowds of turned-away mourners, one of the guards called out, “You there! Yes, you. What is your name?”

“I am Fayendar of Lindol.”

   He shouted the answer into the darkened cave. Then turning back to the visitor, “Fayendar!! It is him, he is here!”

   He was bewildered by the cascading of silence falling over the entire village, from the highest tier down to the pitched tents below.

   After his eyes adjusted from the brightness of the noonday to the dim lamp-lit cave, Fayendar saw familiar faces, though grief-stricken, smiling and embracing him with warmth and words of enthusiasm in seeing him again.

As they parted, Fayendar saw the body of Balthenorn laid out before him. He was still and as pale as the cold sheet that covered him below his clasped hands. He burst into tears and wept. Standing he poured out his sorrow for all of their loss.

   It was only then that the Scribe saw a haggard figure seated in the corner. Having never met the stranger before, Fayendar instantly put a name to the image before him of the old man, with one stray eye and a left ear nearly bitten off, as the Prophet Shay. They called him a Prophet because of the strange admonishments he made against the rulers and priests alike. His harsh words always caused an uproar wherever he went as well as the unexplainable events that surrounded his rare appearances. The rumor was one loved him or hated him, there was no ground in between to tread.

   The old man’s voice broke, “Rarely has the world witnessed such an outpouring of real love and loss. Tell me truly, young man, if this one here, was allowed by Eru-Illuvatar to answer back, what would you tell him now?”

Looking down at the unmoving dead man beside him, Fayendar held his tearful emotions, “I have always loved you, and no one compared to how much you influenced me in wanting to be a better person. I am so very sorrowful I arrived late in coming and failed you.”

   It was then that old man, Shay stood and placed both of his hands over Balthenron’s pale face, “If Eru allows it, may you all find some peace in his.” Shay left that cave-dwelling as he did the crowds parted without hindrance.

As he had given them over to their private grieving, the gathering suddenly felt the weight of all their sorrows and embraced one another with tears. Fayendar stood alone, speechless and overwhelmed.

   

   A moment later they all hushed at the voice wondering from where it came, “Hail Eru of the Summerlands.” His mouth had not opened but then his moving lips said, “I loved and adored you all in my own way, know that will always remain.” Then Balthenorn’s eyes blinked open as he continued to lay there unmoving from the bed in the middle of the room, “Hold no ill will for me or one another, for these days are too brief for such trifles. When you are found in your own sorrows do not neglect to love the one beside you. But for now, there is a need for me to leave you to the cruelty of lessons yet to be learned, as my time is over now.” With that Balthenorn’s eyes softly closed their last even as he drew pale and colder than before. Yet from then on they never neglected to visit with one another and hold each other dear, as Balthenorn had been for them.

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