Now, my dear friend, with that out of the way, can I trust you to compile these once I finish them all? I'll be sending you the parts periodically through letters. The old sheep language is hard to understand and wrap my head around, but with the help of my sheepfolk friends, I am making good time in translating these. Plus, I'd rather a small part of the translation is lost should the letter perish during its journey home, than the entire work. I tell you, this is going to be the mark I'll leave upon this world, and you can be right there with me. We'll split the earnings and fame once it's published. In this letter is enclosed the first part, or in other words what I have finished translating so far. Please, make sure this doesn't get lost or damaged beyond readability, if it isn’t already so from the journey. Copy if possible and store it somewhere safe where none can claim it for their own.
I trust you in this, friend. Don't let me down.
The Silencing of Rimuaeli
SING!
Sing to us, oh Troubadour, ye who wanders the Maker's world so bright and dark
Who stills the caustic crowds, the dead followers of false gods usurping the throne
Sing to us, oh Troubadour, of the fledgling Rhonic son, of many voices' bells tolling
for the world of shadows slowly growing in the heart of the lord of mountaintops
Sing to us, oh Troubadour; in melodies laden the forsaken kingdom of Tambelon
whose spires so high in the shadows concealed; upon which one the king would sit,
ruling nothingness? Tell us, by the warmth of night's womb's fire, of the Rhonic son!
The Rhonic son, the son of mountains of eagled lions, the daybreak of his becoming!
The alluring scent, grass of morn, crisp whiff of rigid crystalline peaks, whitened
in the forlorn winter; the lamb's first breath oh so strained as tried to sing life's melody
for all to hear.
LISTEN!
For the fathers of warriors, for the mothers of poets; be silent not to the song of life!
Breathe again! Seal the hourglass of your heart, let the sands count your time so
long in this world! The neonate's cries prevailed the death's hunger for his light
Rest now, Rhonic father, Rhonic mother, listen for the song of your son, his breath!
Happy lay the mother after nature's labor. Happy stood the father holding his child
Proud was the begetter that beheld his creation molded to perfection in his eyes
that tears up for your brittle body in his vice-like grip with which held is the coil
mortals possess so. Alas, forgive him his tears for he nearly lost his bet with death.
Alive was the child and live he would, and his name would be Grogar of the Rhonic clan.
But for now be a son to the proud father, be a son to the loving mother, be a servant to
the Lord of Mountain Tops.
In the village so high above the world of those below, like seeds growing, life finding
its way in every nook and cranny, so did Grogar the ram of the Rhonic clan take root
in the lives of the villagers. Voice of gold, he sang from morn to eventide long, and
all the sheep would rejoice for their gem was found in the throat of Grogar the ram
The gem uncut and raw but shone with fervor, its light reaching even so far
as to be seen by the old Lord of Mountain Tops himself, who overlooked from the
highest peak of the highest throne of the mountains tall. Oh, Maker have mercy,
Maker save the poor lamb, for the lord heard the song and desired the gem to caress
the fur upon his back impeccable, for his ears too lordly to listen to pleas of his kin
And the lord came, and the lord arrived, to the village of the Rhonic clan, sayeth to Grogar he,
"Sing for me in the halls at the mountaintops."
Grogar was young, shy and scared; he sang not for others, but for himself. That others
would be graced by the song of life and the song of death was not his heart's desire,
but happened nonetheless. For within home he found his family and friends he loved.
But to chant what he felt to the court of the damned, for the lord so cruel as to bury them
in ash, to share his gifts with eaters of the weak and the frail made the poor lamb's
heart ache beyond the words he would say. "I cannot, my lord, sing when asked. My
song comes from the heart, from the home, from the breeze of the mountains, from
the heat of the sun in which I play, from the mirrored image of moon in the pool in
which I bathe. It's the rain of the storm, and I am the ground it soaks. It's the water in
the mountains, and I am the bowl. But forgive me, my lord, I cannot sing, it's dry up there,
in the halls at the mountaintops."
The lord couldn't hear, the lord couldn't bear. To devour rejection was a morsel
much too great. Up there in the castle, where everyone does what he says, where the
lord pompous was raised served by all that moved and bore a breath. Inferno dwelled
within the confines of his sooted heart in black. This his mind could not tolerate.
The lord sickly smiled, the lord viciously whispered o'er Grogar's ears laid back,
"You will sing for me, child, or I will burn your village to the ground. I will render
you parent's head on spikes; crows will feast on their eyes. Your friends I will torture
until they won't even blubber save their names. Bear that in mind, child of the damned."
And so Grogar obliged, scared for the water that ran. He was no longer a bowl, but
a sieve for sand. Yet still the lamb went with the lord, still the lamb was seated by the throne,
and sang for the lord of mountaintops.
There he labored his song for years, child no more, there the raw gem was cut
to shining brilliance of which only few could dream. He was not alone however,
that poor lamb, for others like him – those that drew the lord's gaze or grazed his ear –
and like murals of painters of times far lapsed, they stood on display in the hall
forsaken for all to behold. There, in the halls of the accursed lord he fell in love.
The sheep that plucked his heart's strings, like the harp she swayed in heavenly
melody under her hooves, she caught his eye, possessed his ears, caressed his
fur, melted his miseries and sorrows into none. Together, they thought no pain.
Secretly they met, hidden they stayed each time the lover's moon would arise,
and in the end, in secret they wed, away from the watchful eyes and ears of
the jealous lord of mountaintops.
The heart of cold mountain stone drummed upon the walls as the lord bellowed,
"Accursed be the sons of wisdom gone, their will like this condemned crag of a home;
immalleable, immovable. Mongrels a name unduly considerate for their beastly lives!"
The noble seethed, spat at every servant and slave, marking those he considered to
be damned, until once more he sat on his lonely seat. "Sing, child." As the lord
commandeth, so the lamb obeyeth, and poured out his heart for the ruler to behold.
The song of sorrow, as all the others – no more life, but a sadness filled bosom –
warmed the lord, his heart so cold: like the mountain stone upon which his prison
loomed over the lives of those he ruled. On the throne, coat of old, claws so sharp,
wings unfurled; like an old king, head drooped under the heavy weight of a crown,
a forlorn tear slid down the feathered jowl.
"Why, oh sweet child of mine, sing you the saddest song, like the blackest crow that
soars above our world; that snuffs the candles, stops the sands, shatters the bowls?
Why, sweet child, bring me to tears, make my chest heave, my heart ache, my old
knees tremble, make me think of rivers and their waters gone by in the sea of sorrows?
Why, child, sing you not a happy song, a lovely serenade played by the lovers' moon,
an aria of desires of the heart, a ballad of glory and honor for heroes not of this time?!"
The lord bellowed, arms spread out, talons sharp knives, wings a regal cape upon his back
"Where's the feast, the tables overflowing?! The dancers in perfect harmonies?! The
guests to liven up the halls, the music quaking the windows and the walls, the happy yowls?!
Out! Out, you onlookers, you gazers of stars glazed o'er, mirrors cracked, of soulless stares!
Begone! Let me see you no more!"
Life has fled, the storm thus raged, the castle now dull and gray, the silenced songs
echoing in the empty hallways. The dark gathered over the mountain halls, and with
the first thunder trembled the walls as the hill itself shuddered in the roaring cries—
the cries of the oppressed that rose from their graves, their homes, their hidden lairs.
Rose they did, with flames of witches' pyres, weapons of sharpened edges, and voices
roaring like thunder rolling over the mountaintops. The heart was taken, the blood was still;
The breath stolen, the voice silenced. No more! They thundered the words again!
In the garden beneath the mountain, 'neath a willow creaking, the poor lamb and his lover
speaking gently and softly, cast away the shadowy clouds and the wrathful thunder in the warmth
of one another. "Will you go there, my beloved? Will you calm the tempest? Willst thou sing
to the lord of mountaintops?"
