Wars of the Aoten

Song of Geoffrey

  A composition of Mienrade of the Melics

  as told to Sylva, the vizier’s daughter

  Drueed took his own counsel, meditating in the shadows of

  The rock, heights of Medialia known only to the few

  Who would make of themselves men of valor and honor,

  Those few who longed for the greatness of a past day

  To return again to the present. And so did Drueed

  Make a decision to himself in that day that such a one

  Would arise from a strange people, a man not of the Melics,

  And of this tree would he produce branches, two strong limbs.

  And upon these branches would balance the fates of peoples

  Scattered about the land, for upon strong arms and hearts,

  Branches and roots, does the future place its hope.

  And this one did Drueed raise, and he did fulfill

  His due charge, to make his home with the Rufoux,

  But befriend too all men of Medialia. And greatly prospered

  The strength of his loins, and mightily the courage

  That found seat in his heart, until the day of his passing.

  But you, men of Medialia, will you not reserve the rest

  Of your lives to mourn the doom of Geoffrey? Will you

  Not proclaim your dirge for generations? Yet not today,

  No not today, for even the mightiest trees are doomed to die,

  But the lifeless standancrag stands tall and erect forever.

  Indeed, the land cries out no, and the waters sing in response,

  That on this one day you will celebrate the life of Geoffrey!

  Hear! Oh men of leather and red, of bronze and fire.

  Give ear, you clansmen of the trees and those who populate

  The streams and rivulets! For a man lived before you!

  Listen, O Bedoua, for the sands will not ring

  With the echo of this song, nor will the stone walls

  Deflect its tempest, oh you Raspar archers. For a man

  Has walked the roads of Medialia, and traversed its waters

  Like the greatest of his forefathers, and ours indeed. On this

  One day, we will celebrate the life of Geoffrey!

  “See what the future holds for you, oh Melics, what

  The shadows will show you when the appointed day

  Has come to pass upon Medialia,” said Drueed, the great

  Mystery of the ages. “See what man walks into the forests

  To challenge your choosing to dwell apart, above the heights

  Of all those who surround you. For he will impart to you

  An idea foreign to you, and a hope for your future.

  Open your reasoning to a new thought, that with men

  Should men settle. Take hold with the hand the invitation

  To see beyond what the shadows foretold, beyond what

  Your ancestors have seen; take hold of the reality that reason

  Must concede does exist beyond the form of mere shadows.

  Oh, Melics, you have done well, for you are Melics,

  But now I send you another who will strengthen you

  And help you see that a reality exists beyond reasoning.

  That one will bring hope for the Melics, hope for Rufoux.

  And one shall meet him, and one will make him welcome,

  For what is old is passed, what is new has begun.”

  Through the branches, though familiar to her feet, Hilde made

  Her trek, against the setting sun, with the destination

  Of land, of earth, and deserting the place of her upbringing.

  “Why do you leave me alone, Drueed, oh you benefactor

  Of the Melics? Do you find it difficult to speak,

  Most high of the forests of Medialia? Or do you

  Simply fear a woman? Do you find your tongue tied?

  Why do you not defend yourself before me? Do you

  Find me too difficult an adversary in my weakness?

  For I am destitute in my home, alone within

  The multitude of my clan, and there is none

  To comfort me. Why then do you withdraw from me,

  Oh Drueed? Why do you separate from me, just as

  Surely as death itself does separate one from another?”

  Yet did Drueed remain still, unwilling to reveal

  The depths of wisdom, only the breadth of mystery,

  Leaving Hilde to seek in her own mind the realm

  Her contentment would at last discover.

  “For what reason have you led me to the edge

  Of my forest home, Oh Drueed? For what cause have

  I been driven to the outskirts of my people?

  What wisdom is this, Oh Philosopher, that you

  Impute your contempt upon a destitute matron

  Such as I? For there is no comfort within my

  Family, nor succor either in the bitter arrows

  Of my clansmen. Every word finds its mark,

  Every glance stabs with its own blade, in this forlorn

  Heart.” Yet still did Drueed hide within the shadows,

  Still did he withhold his secret counsels from

  The Melic woman as she trod upon her solitary way.

  And her hard feet felt the cool softness of the soil,

  And the trees stood behind, her past, and the leaves

  Nodded a gentle farewell to their prodigal daughter.

  “Oh, Drueed, you have surely abandoned those

  Who need you most, those who call upon your name most

  Desperately, those who have lost all hope except in you!

  For my womb is empty, and my bed desolate, and still

  You hide your countenance from me! Show yourself,

  Drueed, or else show me the face of my salvation,

  The one who would give me release from the drudging

  Toil of my days!” Hilde screamed toward the treetops

  Vanishing into the distance. “Who makes this noise?” said

  The gruff voice, “That imposes upon Rufoux lands?”

  Hilde did jump at the sound, for the voice was surely

  Grand and daunting, and she believed for a moment

  Drueed truly heard and answered; yet no terror quaked

  Behind the voice, no threat that is the spawn of weakness,

  For strength itself brought forth the words, courage

  Breathing justice and honor into its spirit, for thus spoke

  Geoffrey of the Rufoux, the grand patriarch of his clan.

  “I am Hilde, a Melic, and I abandon the trees

  Of my homeland to tread upon your hallowed ground,”

  Replied the woman. “I wander alone upon your lands

  Even as I am alone in the branches. So do me no

  Injury, Rufoux man, for surely I mean no harm to you

  Nor to the ground of your feet and fathers’ feet.

  For a butterfly can land anywhere, but only

  The most tender petal would feel its weight.”

  “Woman, I know not of what you speak,” replied

  Geoffrey. “Only do I know that you tread upon Rufoux

  Lands, and in all my life the Melics have forever

  Remained in the trees. Often have I heard their songs

  In the dusk, but never have I seen the singer, neither in

  The leaves nor standing upon the dust of Medialia.

  What brings you here, woman, before I call the warriors

  To wreak their vengeance upon you and your clan?”

  “Have mercy, my lord, for my people know not that

  I enter among you. The Melics grow tired of my ways,

  And there remains none to console me. Therefore I leave my

  Homeland to seek another, one who might bring fruit

  Again to my womb and comfort my arms in the night.

  So, my lord, have mercy upon me and upon my people,

  For they have
none of me, nor will have any part

  Of me, and are innocent. As for me, as I linger

  In my suffering, it matters not, for your mercy

  Might extend my years or cut them short today,

  It matters not. But within your own borders,

  I have surely put my fate within your hands.” And

  So did sorrowful Hilde beseech him, hands enjoined.

  “Well you speak,” said honorable Geoffrey, “For the ages

  Have passed without new war between Rufoux and Melic,

  And I seek none now. Nor would I do harm to a lone

  Woman, if indeed you do not scheme to deceive me,

  And do not produce clansmen from the trees like droppings

  Of the kinderfalcon. What your complaint is, and what

  Remedy you desire, yet escapes me and any power

  I have to drive you from this land in contentment.”

  Gently did he rest his eyes upon her, not wishing

  Any evil upon her, seeming so deprived of hope.

  “Sir, listen then to my lament, that your understanding

  Might open upon my desire.” And Hilde did lean

  Her breast upon his shoulder, and look into his clear

  Eyes, searching for weak flesh in the strength of his

  Gracious spirit. Thus did Geoffrey fall into the wiles

  Of her graces, the muse of her tenderness, and did

  Bequeath upon her the Rufoux bloodline. But yet

  Not to his shame! For still is Picta among us, a

  Shadow for a future generation, the

  Fruit of a merciful man, born from the honor of

  This father of many, never speaking, never lamenting,

  But only casting his memory upon her and the matron

  Forced into the mountains in her guilt — for truly

  A Rufoux man showed grace more than the trees — yet still

  Offering hope to the Melics, the dying people, hope

  That the sins of the past would not be visited upon

  Generations to come, but instead life would call their spirits.

  For what is old is passed, what is new has begun.

  Again did Drueed sit among the shadows and meditate

  Within his own counsel. Again did crisis arise among

  The Melics, and Drueed called upon a man of separate

  Nation, but not cause. For across the land of Medialia

  Did a strange race invade, roaming the land in rage

  And destruction. Towering high above the heads of men,

  Mighty Aoten ranged the fields, with grievous footsteps

  Claiming rights to Medialia. And the Melics did protest,

  To see the hideous giants below, but their efforts fell

  Weakly to the ground, for they boast not a warrior race,

  But a people of thought and reason, for so continues

  Drueed’s gift to them from of old. And so did

  Drueed again consider them and the words of their

  Prayers lifted toward him, and did sit in the shadows

  And meditate within his own counsel. “These Melics

  Recall their need again, and all of Medialia, trees and

  Lands, and they call upon me for wisdom and

  Deliverance. But they yet fall upon wisdom, already having

  Been defeated by the encroaching Aoten, and knowing

  To seek out aid. But who shall I send to rescue them

  From their distress, and to make a war against these giants?

  For there dwells none within Medialia strong enough to survive

  The slaughter of the Aoten, the might of their blows,

  Except the Rufoux, and Geoffrey of the Rufoux.”

  And so did Drueed again call upon bold Geoffrey,

  Endowed with the courage of age, the audacity of the

  Passage of years, for so little did he care about

  His own life that he would gladly give it for that

  Of another. And Geoffrey heeded the call of

  The Melics, and did bring his clan into league

  With the tree-dwellers. And so he did at last lay

  His eyes upon Picta, and his hand upon her shoulders,

  And so he did make pact between the Rufoux

  And Melics. “But we cannot win alone!” he declared

  To the gathered warriors, “For our strength still falls

  Short to defeat the hulking Aoten, who hunger

  After our grain and the taste of our flesh. There remains

  A secret matter for us to uncover — we must

  Bring into the battle all the clans of Medialia,

  All the peoples who belong to this most grand land

  Upon all the Earth, or neither will the Rufoux,

  Nor Melics, nor any clan live to tell the tale

  To children dandled before the ceremonial fires.”

  Did Geoffrey cease? No indeed, for the ancient Rufoux

  Saw truly that still weakness vexed his forces, not enough to

  Overtake the raiders of the land, those who would rape

  The forests and meadows. Even as the desperate cry

  Lifted from the land, even as its people fell destitute,

  Ships of the Koinoni brought their own terror,

  And the Rufoux saw anew the despised vagabonds

  Of the Earth. What new trouble would arise – just as

  The eyes of the clan had diverted to saving

  Their village – from the desires of the traders, vessels

  Weighted down with ill-gotten wares and fiendish reputation?

  What indeed? For it mattered not to Geoffrey, who saw anew

  Upon the ships only strong arms to bear weapons,

  And mighty robes of mail to deflect darts and arrows,

  And ingenious devices from foreign lands that would

  Serve him well to flummox the thick-headed Aoten and

  Add strength to the swords of the Rufoux, the axes

  Of the Melics, and the imaginations of all others

  Who would partake in the great adventure he led

  For all of Medialia. “So join with us!” he proclaimed.

  “Take up your arms with us, in the glorious battle for

  The life of Medialia’s clans, and be one of us again,

  A lost nation found once more in Medialia;

  Be among the race of humans again, and no longer the hated

  Wanderers of the waterways that flow you know not where.”

  But yet still the army stood weak, and its number too few.

  And so yet again did Geoffrey of the Rufoux, the man

  Who makes Mog himself jealous for the power

  Of his bravery, the impudence that prepares for battle

  By putting aside armor, jealous for the courage that

  Lays siege against giants and dead elders alike, unafraid to

  Challenge the weapons of a gigantic enemy or the mindset

  Of entrenched culture, so did Geoffrey set out upon his

  Desperate journey into the blowing desert sands of

  The Bedoua, the strange people who had so long hated

  The Rufoux. But Geoffrey, without fear in his heart,

  Without doubt of mind, sought them out, to make his

  Peace with the legends of warfare, to show his people’s

  Desire now for treaty, and desire now to right former

  Wrongs, so that even the great lancers of the Bedoua

  Might join in the battle to save Medialia. And in his

  Wisdom he did bring the mighty desert nomads into alliance

  To defeat the Aoten, even down the River Alluvia did he

  Bring them, making peace between the Bedoua and Rufoux,

  Between the Bedoua and the waters, to be cursed no more.

  For what is old is passed, what is new has begun.

  Nor even yet did Geoffrey rest satisfied, this man of godlike

  Stature, the thumbless one of g
rand reputation, for still

  The defenses of the clans against the giants could not

  Withstand their assault. So even still he coveted the aid

  Of the hidden clan, the hermit dwellers of the stone city,

  The Raspars, who alone know the secrets of the high

  Walls, the stronghold of warfare, the polished death

  Of the fine stone arrowhead. Never had they been seen,

  Never had they deserted their fortress of cut boulders,

  But Geoffrey would not be restrained, nor would he

  Be discouraged from his mission, and he gallantly marched

  Across the expanse of Medialia, navigating the rivers

  That hold the land in their tender embrace, and approached

  The foot of the walls surrounding the great city,

  The towers of stone, glistening in the sun, crowned with

  Gargoyles, witness to the greatness of mankind, the glory

  Of man’s mind and muscle, the genius of his creation.

  What foolishness, they claimed! But do not the shadows

  Cast by the moon seem less dense in the darkness?

  Did not Geoffrey’s tree lift great missiles through the air,

  Driving the giants into the river and across the land?

  Was it not Geoffrey who returned? Did not Geoffrey

  Advance across the fields, back to the awaiting Rufoux?

  Was it not Geoffrey leading a great battalion of Melics,

  Of Bedoua, of Koinoni, and thousands upon thousands

  Of Raspar archers, bristling with tools, weighted down

  With weaponry, desiring to spill the blood of the Aoten?

  Was it not Geoffrey, or do I think of another?

  Will my song end with this salutation? Or will I sing

  More of Geoffrey? How could there be more still to tell of this

  Man of Medialia? I must confess, still more I must tell,

  For he has brought hope unto the Melics, the people

  Of the trees, but as well all the clans of Medialia,

  But more so he has brought hope to the Rufoux.

  For in the days of his travels, he came to see

  The sore melancholy of Artur, and the bruising of his heart,

  And the prison of custom did hold his son in cruel grip,

  And Geoffrey vowed this calamity would not fall

  Upon this, his youngest son, nor fall upon his clan. In

  That day he spoke his word to overrule the tradition

  And end the solitude of Artur, and the shame of Andreia —

  Just as his mercy touched the heartache of Hilde —

  To ensure the line of Artur, the line of Geoffrey,

  The chieftains of the Rufoux, that their leaders might

  Grow in prosperity and fatness in all the years ahead

  After driving the Aoten from the land, and all

  The clans may live and work and play and marry,

  Even as Artur and Andreia marry against expectation

  Of the gods, and peace will reign upon the Earth.

  For what is old is passed, what is new has begun.

  Let us celebrate this hero, even as his funeral flames

  Reach into the skies, his own fiery countenance taking

  Him into the heavens without flint and kindling.

  Surely the magic of Drueed shows us a great thing,

  Taking Geoffrey into his reward at his own calling.

  Let us celebrate the hero! For he has shown us

  The way of the new world, the new Medialia,

  A time when all clans will join together for

  The better good of all! Let us celebrate the hero!

  For he has battled the tyranny of traditions that

  Held all men prisoner, and has led us into a better

  Way, even as we do battle against looming rivals of

  Simple flesh and blood, but no less fearsome!

  Let us celebrate the hero! For Geoffrey lives on

  Among us, always in the heart, always in the memory,

  His spirit anointed to lead the new future of Medialia!

  For what is old is passed, what is new has begun!