"Tell me the meaning of the braids and knots in your hair," Miránd asks, his youngest daughter, Ylínia, upon his knee, a bit of bread in her hands as she eats it in tiny little bites. The two older children sit together by the hearth, their muffled voices rising and falling in play as they speak to one another, weaving some kind of new tale or game among themselves, a boy and a girl learning to navigate the stormy and yet beautiful waters of relationship in the bosom of wonder-filled reality.
"What is it you wish to know?" Eldárien asks.
"What is their significance?"
"Since you ask, it seems you already have some sense of the answer."
"No, my wife simply told me that there was a significance."
"Ah, I see," says Eldárien, with a glance at Alíja. "And there is. It seems as though she already surmised more about me than I let on in words, and the words proved to be but a confirmation."
"There is much I do not know know," Alíja says, "but yes, I surmised."
"Well then, I see no harm in saying more," Eldárien continues. "See, all the soldiers of the Empire wear a braid in their hair, on the right temple, and pulled behind the ear. It is a sign by which they more easily recognize one another, even while not in uniform. This knowledge is well known to many, as one cannot understandably keep such things hidden. But the further intricacies are harder to decipher. For those in office also wear a left braid that hangs down freely before the ear rather than tied back into the rest of the hair. And according to one's rank, the braid bears one, two, or three knots, indicating whether one is a lieutenant, captain, or general, with another knot added accordingly. There are more intricacies even than this, though they are not relevant to our current conversation and their knowledge is reserved only to those in office."
"So Alíja, you knew by Eldárien's braids that he was a soldier of the Empire?" Miránd asks, turning to his wife. "But he has no left braid, nor knots upon it."
"But he did at one point, I believe," she says.
"In that you are right," confirms Eldárien.
"A patch of hair roughly cut, even if subtle, is still visible, especially if it is so close to the face and the eyes."
"Ah yes, I see it now," observes Mórlof, who until now has been silent, though clearly he has been following the conversation closely.
There is in fact a short tuft of hair along Eldárien's left temple that looks to have been cut a couple inches from the skin in a rough fashion with a knife or a sword, and it hangs down uneasily among locks of much longer hair, most of which are pulled back into a tie at the nape of the neck.
At this point, the conversation is momentarily interrupted as Mórlof's wife, Yelía, arrives with a steaming pot of tisane and five cups, which she sets before them.
"The ginger tisane is ready, dears," she says, sitting down with them. "Please, take some; the ingredients are straight from the garden."
"Thank you very much," Eldárien says, as he allows her to pour him a cup of the steaming liquid, which in the process fills the small room with the sweet smell of ginger and of another herb. "Is there lavender in this?"
"Indeed there is! Both are good for the stomach and the nerves. At least it has been thought so in my family for generations, and I myself am a firm believer."
"My mother used to grow lavender above the window sill in her kitchen, and she would make tisane with a dash of mint...and milk when we had it," Eldárien says wistfully, sipping from the cup. "This is very good, Yelía. It reminds me of home."
"What more could a woman ask of her hospitality than that?" she replies. "How long has it been since you were home?"
"How long?" Eldárien repeats, taking another sip of his tisane and directing his gaze to the children sitting by the hearth and playing in the carefree way so natural to children but so rare in adults. The firelight glistens in his eyes as the room is hushed for a long moment, his hosts watching him and awaiting his answer. "It has been too long," he says at last, "much too long."
"Well, perhaps now that you are back in Telmérion, you can make a visit?" Miránd suggests.
"Yes, perhaps," Eldárien replies noncommittally and then shakes away his memories. "We were speaking of the custom of the knots."
"Aye. You had them, and now you don't," Miránd says, "but you kept the braid of the soldier. Why is that?"
"Because I still remain faithful to my oath to serve the authentic good of the Empire, as much as I am able to do so in my current situation."
"But, if you don't mind me asking, are you not a deserter?" Mórlof asks, perhaps with too little tact.
"As I said before, I hope that it is and shall be seen as a little more complex than that. Some would call me so, and at times I think to myself that I am so as well. My original company was entirely destroyed and I was the only survivor. After this, I was assigned to another company of three hundred men and was with them for but a few months before receiving an order that I knew I could not carry out. I left the army with the full knowledge of all involved, as I said earlier, and on matters of conscience."
"Could punitive action still be taken against you?" Alíja asks.
"I suppose it could, yes," answers Eldárien. "I will not know until I encounter authorities of the Empire who are acquainted with my situation. The question, in my mind, is whether it will be understood that I wish to serve the Empire in a way different than before, or whether my departure will be seen as a betrayal and blatantly condemned."
"Yet you said that the Empire has done great evil and that you must stand against it," Mórlof observes.
"That also is true. But I still believe in the goodness of the Empire, and in its capacity for restoration and healing," says Eldárien. "And indeed I still hope that the Empire can be a beneficial presence for Telmérion, if it can be faithful to its original purpose." But immediately upon saying this, he knows that he doubts it. The conversation is cutting deep into questions and insecurities within his own heart, as the atrocities committed in the name of the Empire rise before his imagination; he tries to bury them again so as not to let his own doubt show before his hosts. And yet as the doubt lingers so vividly that it cannot be entirely hidden, he allows himself to say, "To be honest, as to the Empire's goodness for the people of Telmérion, I am unsure. I do not, however, support violent rebellion against her rule. Forgive me. I know not whether any of you are in some measure favorable to the rebels and wish the yoke of the Empire could be thrown off by whatever means. I know that Alíja said earlier that you foster no such tendencies, but still...such things are hard to gauge, and I do not expect complete transparency from you after such a short acquaintance."
"You yourself speak with surprising transparency," replies Mórlof, "and this only lends to your credibility and trustworthiness. So I speak likewise, Eldárien: I would say that we are more or less neutral here, though I do wonder whether any native Telmérin, in his heart of hearts, truly rejoices in the fact of the Imperial occupation. Regarding the feasibility of martial rebellion, however, some shade more one direction, and some more the other. That is true for most in this village. We see that the Empire is neither all good nor all evil, and acknowledge that its presence has brought many boons even while also bringing the loss of numerous things that were once our own. In my opinion, I think that the rebellion is quite justified in many respects, considering the current state of affairs, though this does not mean that I would actively support or participate in it myself."
"As for myself, I question whether civil war is the best course of action," Alíja adds. "I for one strongly wish there was a way to achieve these goals, or a measure of them, without more bloodshed and loss of life. I was raised in closer proximity to the Empire's capital in Telmérion, and thus, you could say, have more 'Imperial blood' in me than others, figuratively speaking. I understand the native identity of the Telmérins, and I myself am one, but I wonder if it is possible to turn back history after so many generations of mutual coexistence, of intermarriage, and of cultural intermingling. Either way, I hope we find a way to proceed in peace."
"Then we are much in agreement," says Eldárien.
"Did you know," Miránd bursts out, immediately changing the tenor of the conversation, "that they have started public executions in the main streets of the capital city, and in Ristfánd as well?"
Eldárien lowers his eyes for a moment and sighs deeply, before replying. When he speaks, all that he says is, "Yes...I only recently became aware of this."
"And ever since the Minstead rebellion began," Miránd continues, "the Imperial army has begun drafting young men from the neutral territories west of the mountains. I have heard that they take them even as young as sixteen years of age."
"I had heard rumors but did not know whether it was true. Much, it seems, has progressed since I set sail from Brûg'hil to Tel-Velfána years ago, or even since I departed from Tel-Velfána to return here. It is, I admit, uncanny to fight for a military, for a civilization, of whose actions I am in large part unaware."
"Do you not think, therefore," Mórlof begins, hesitantly, "—I ask this as a matter of thought, not as a conviction—do you not think that perhaps an independent Telmérion would be better than one under the hand of the Empire?"
Eldárien turns uneasily in his chair and tries to hide the fact that this thought has been preoccupying him repeatedly over the past few months. At last he replies, "After the initial conflicts following upon the Empire's invasion two hundred years ago—and after the surrender of the Telmérins and their incorporation into the Empire—there has occurred a more or less harmonious conjoining of the two cultures. The roots have grown together deeply. I doubt it would be possible now to sunder them entirely, even with the sword."
"Is it right to resort to violence when the conflict originally ended with an agreement of peace and coexistence? Yes, the Imperials came with the sword, yet when all was said and done, they brought peace," Yelía says, explicitly entering the conversation for the first time. "I know an old woman should not butt into the affairs of younger men arguing over politics. But there is something I want to say. The Telmérins were for long ages a group of warring tribes—were they not?—caught in an endless contest for land and power and resources. Rare was the clan that wished only to live out its days peacefully in the place allotted to it. And though such clans there were—my ancestors being one of them—this did not mean that we were free from the tyranny or violence of others."
"That is true," Eldárien affirms, picking up on the trail of her words, "and in that light, I find it unsettling to think that the Empire was able to achieve, in such short a time, a peace between clans which for centuries had fought one another so persistently."
Yelía lets out a slow breath, rubbing her cheek thoughtfully. "It is a mystery to all of us how the seven clan leaders unanimously agreed to pass the right of highest authority to the Emperor and his legate in Brûg'hil, and to be acknowledged as equal brothers in the onárion, the council of the seven. But regardless of how this occurred, it has, it seems to me, brought much good. And apart from Ólrig the Mad, no clan leader has openly questioned or opposed this authority over the past five generations...of course, until the uprising of Wýgrec Stûnclad four years ago."
"I suppose the question before us is whether the ancient conflict should be restored, or if it is even possible to do so, now that the Empire and Telmérion have become so deeply conjoined," Eldárien says. "And yet an even more fundamental question is: why did our people yield those many years ago? Is it because they at last learned a lesson of peaceful coexistence or because they were cowed to their knees by a superior force? As for myself, I do not know how to even begin unraveling this fabric."
"I do not know what there is to unravel," Yelía replies, quietly but with a touch of impatience. "Do you think there is some secret hidden in the past that has led to all of this? There was once conflict, and then peace came. And there was peace for two-hundred years, and now it has been disturbed again. It is that simple. Is it the Empire that has changed, or is it the people of Telmérion? The answer seems obvious."
After this, probably sensing the rising tension of the conversation, Alíja stands and says, "Well, it is getting late. I suppose it is time that we clean and prepare to retire for the night."
"Yes, yes, you are quite right," Mórlof agrees, also rising to his feet. "Come Yelía, let us return home and show our guest where he will be staying."
"I shall remain here a moment to help my daughter-in-law to tidy her house before the night," she replies. "Why don't you go yourself? I will be over soon."
"If you say so. We will see you soon enough."
After offering to stay and help—and receiving a gentle and friendly refusal—Eldárien bids goodnight to everyone and follows Mórlof across the yard to the other house. The sun has already long disappeared behind the horizon in the west, and without the presence of the moon yet visible, darkness has cloaked the land such that no more than a few yards are visible before Eldárien's eyes. From the moment he steps out of the house he feels enveloped both in darkness and in cold, for with the departure of the sun a bitter chill has also fallen upon the land.The sounds of night, too, greet him: the hooting of an owl in a nearby tree and, a little farther away, the call of a warbler, and, at the very edge of hearing, the hum of the ocean's waves as they wash continuously against the rocky shore. He chances a glance to the sky and sees a star-speckled firmament peeking through dark and low-hanging clouds. This is the same sky that he had looked upon in his desperation the night before, and yet now her radiant face is partly obscured, veiled, even as she winks through with her beauty still, in the dancing of the innumerable stars and the richly saturated colors of the celestial aurora, visible to the naked eye as though it were an ethereal mist hanging about the earth.
Once inside the house, Mórlof promptly shows Eldárien to a small back room, furnished with only a rickety wooden desk and chair and a straw-padded bed with a worn fur coverlet. Over the desk is a paned window twelve-by-twelve inches square and now totally dark.
"I am sorry if it gets cold here during the night," Mórlof says, "but there is no direct heat to this part of the house. We have only one hearth, and unfortunately this is the furthest room from it. The furs should keep you reasonably warm, however. Just keep your nose under the blanket, or you might wake with a red plum between your eyes."
"Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Mórlof, but for me it is no problem. I have spent numerous nights under the stars and in the nocturnal cold, and my nose has abode it all until now."
Mórlof turns to leave but pauses, as if something has come to his mind, and he glances back. "Oh, and concerning Yelía, please be patient with her and forgive her. She speaks from the heart, but at times she feels more quickly and more vividly than she thinks, and her words run ahead of her mind."
"I understood as much, but thank you for your words. There is truly nothing to forgive."
"Good. Well then, I suggest that you retire for the night. She may be a while yet, and there is no need to speak with her again before the night is up. As for myself, I am exhausted from a day full of many words, and shall retire shortly as well."
Eldárien nods silently to this, but then Mórlof speaks again, as if in his absentmindedness he has only now remembered something else essential as well.
"But first, before I go," he says, "let me get a clean change of clothes for you and a basin of warm water. You can refresh yourself, and we will take your clothes, wash them, and give them back to you by the end of the day tomorrow."
With this Mórlof leaves the room, pulling the door closed but for a few inches. With a sigh, Eldárien sinks down onto the bed and rests his face against his hands.What is happening to me? he thinks. Do I even know who I am anymore or for what I stand? I have been given the gift of life again, even on the very verge of death, and yet for what purpose am I to live?
He turns his mind to the previous years of his life and to the events that have led him to this place, but hefails to summon anything, dull with an intermingling of exhaustion and pain. He tries for a few moments, grasping for some semblance of rational thought, some control over his memory, and therefore over his present and his future. But it slips through his fingers, and he finds himself standing empty handed, with a shame-laden past, an uncontrollable present, and an uncertain future. At first, his heart rebels against this, terrified of where the current might lead him if he surrenders to it,surrenders to those things beyond his own control and comprehension; but he is too tired to resist, and he surrenders more out of exhaustion than out of desire, though somewhere within him desire too dwells, albeit hidden.
He finds himself sinking into a deep and inaccessible memory long buried, long ignored even if not forgotten, which in this moment becomes as if fully present anew. His heart recoils, however, and he tries as it were to slam shut the doors of his mind and his imagination. But the memory encompasses him nonetheless, and he finds himself again as a young man not yet fully come of age, standing in the open doorway of his home in the village in which he was raised. It is night, and the star-speckled sky stands brilliant behind him, unchanging and yet ever inexhaustible in wealth of beauty. But the sight he beholds before his eyes is darkness itself, without a hint of stars or moonlight or, for him, even a hope of the dawn.
He has rushed in from the hillsides overlooking the village, where he had sat atop "his" rock, as they called it, and gazed upon the night sky, as he was wont to do. It is dangerous to be out at night, of course, as Ma always says, for beasts and brigands roam in the darkness. For the life of these bandits, the Relihím, consists in scouring the forests, traversing the wild, in search of ill-gotten gain. Rarely do they bring direct violence to a village, as their preferred manner is to waylay travelers upon the road or to sneak into lone houses in the depths of night to pilfer material goods, livestock, women-slaves, and all the wealth that can be found. However, this night is different. First he sees the fire, a ring of dull red light gradually spreading to encircle the village. Rushing through the woods and coming again to the settlement, he seeks for a passage through the flames and finds a narrow space doused with water—a passage for the Relihím to enter and to depart—and enters through it himself. The cries of anguish and fear echo through the air, and the shouts of power and greed also.
The paradox is not lost upon him: for if he had stayed outside of the village, exposed to the wild, he would have been far safer than if he had returned to the village upon seeing the light of the flames glowing through the trees in the distance, and thick black clouds of smoke billowing into the sky. What was once safe and secure is now plunged into darkness and danger, and the sudden inversion unsettles Eldárien and fills his mind with confusion and disorientation. But shaking away these feelings he hastens toward his family home, giving hardly a thought to his own safety, so overwhelmed is he with concern for his family, for his mother, father, and sister. In the house is a cellar, concealed such that only those who know of its location will be able to find it. Since the first moment he realized the plight of the village, he has prayed ceaselessly that his family has taken refuge in the cellar before anything could befall them. But as he comes to his home, after weaving through the flaming chaos of the village, what he sees destroys all remaining hope in his heart.
Oh, Ma, if only I had been here, perhaps I could have protected you! For now I stand in the doorway of our house, and I look down upon your lifeless and blood-drenched body, desecrated like a temple torn and looted by the evildoers. My body trembles at this sight, and tears spring to my eyes as I sink to my knees, the loud crackling of flames disappearing from my numbed ears. I hear nothing now but the memory of your voice, fading away, fading away, as if saying farewell, until it too echoes no more and falls silent.
I know not how long I kneel here before you, tears pouring from my eyes and sobs tearing at my body, before I come to my senses again. The cellar! I must look in the cellar! Perhaps Pa or my younger sister Selía are still there, too afraid to come out. I try to rise to my feet, but I find myself unable, my legs devoid of all strength and my whole body shaking uncontrollably. And the thought of stepping over your lifeless body is inconceivable. Yet so is the thought of leaving you alone in death and fleeing to preserve my life. I remain, therefore, in indecision for a long and tortured moment. At last, and pushing away all further thought, I pull off my outer cloak and lay it over your body, a veiling of both reverence and farewell. Then I step around you as best I can and walk to the back of the room where the wood panels of the floor conceal the secret cellar. I pull back the boards and lower myself inside. But it is empty, and nothing greets me but the damp and musty scent of earth untouched for many months.
My heart sinking within me, I pull myself up again from the cellar and rise to my feet. What more can be done? Pa... Selía... Where have you gone? The thought of searching the bodies strewn throughout the village causes my stomach to churn and my head to spin. But I have no choice. I stumble to the doorway and, upon stepping into the open, I almost immediately hear a voice. A familiar voice.
"Please, I beg you, just leave now. You have already taken everything that I love, everything that the people of this village have so long loved and cared for. Take my life if you will, but I beg you to leave our village at once."
It is Pa's voice, firm and strong even as it trembles with fear in the face of pain and death and with sorrow at the loss of which he speaks. And in response to this, my heart is torn, the pain of my father compounding with my own, and it is drawn out of itself toward him. I yearn to be with him, to be at his side, to let him know that he has not lost everything. My body begins to move almost without my knowledge, drawn forward by my heart,but then is frozen in place as I witness, through the darkness of the night illumined by flames, the events that unfold before me.
"Why should you live if all you care about has been lost?" one of the brigands says, his voice cold and threatening. Even though I cannot see his face, his smirk is so evident that it is audible even in the tenor of his voice.
"This is not about my life but the life of our people!" Pa protests. "You are destroying everything that the Telméric people stand for—and for what, for power and gain?"
"Your tongue irritates me," says the same man. "Let us remove it from your mouth." An axe blade flashes in the air, and, to my surprise and relief, it is deflected by Pa, who has drawn a long hunting knife from his belt. By the force of his own swing, now deflected, the brigand stumbles sideways and loses balance. Pa takes advantage of the opportunity and kicks him hard with the bottom of his boot, sending him to the ground. As Pa turns to flee, two more men step forward, their faces covered in thick paint, clothed in animal furs, and with horned helmets upon their heads. One catches Pa's exposed leg with a downward thrust of a heavy war hammer, preventing his movement—the thick crushing sound reverberating through my whole being, and much more so Pa's anguished cry--while the other man steps forward and raises a great blade with jagged edge. It all happens in a rapid flurry of movement, from the beginning to end, and I am unable to move even an inch, frozen in terror and agony. The blade comes down straight upon Pa's head, his eyes upturned toward his murderer, and two final words dying short upon his lips:
"Eldárien, flee!"
His words catch me by surprise even as they smite my heart. My father's last thought and concern was for me, and even in his dying breath he sought to protect me. I did not realize he knew of my presence, but the meaning of his sacrifice is unveiled before me now, as I realize that I am standing much closer to the scene than at first I noticed. I am now separated from the Relihím only by the shadows surrounding me and by the unmoving figure of Pa, crumpled to the earth. He had tried to divert them from my presence and had been unable to do so.So now let me at least heed his words as best I can, and flee!
It is too late to escape unnoticed, for once Pa was felled, my own presence became obvious—not only because I stood directly before the band of brigands, to me too many to count—but also because, involuntarily, I had let out a terrible scream at witnessing the death of my own father. So now is the time to run, to run like the wind runs through the spring hillsides, or like the storms rolling in from the mountains in winter, or like the love of mother and father pouring over me and into me from my earliest days, and washing on, into the life that lies beyond the grave.
And I run, blind to all else, tears still ripping from my eyes, leaping without thought through the smoldering ring of fire surrounding the village, into the woods, and up into the hills, the pounding footsteps of men behind me. How many are there? Certainly they do not all follow in pursuit. One? Two? I try to listen, but I can hear little over the pounding of my own footsteps and the pain throbbing in my head. I am young, but I am fast; yet even so, I do not hope to outrun these men, trained and experienced for decades in the wilderness. My only hope is to hide, to hide somewhere where they can neither track me nor reach me. But is there such a place?
Even as the question enters my mind, I know the answer. Yes, there is such a place. It is the cave of Séra Galáptes, which lies only a short distance into the hills, at the base of the mountain that leads up to Gorójin Peak. I have neither time nor space to consider how difficult it will be to find in the darkness of night, all the while trying to maintainsuch an agonizing pace. No, I just run, leaning into a hope beyond my despair, a guidance beyond my blindness, reaching out to what I cannot touch and throwing myself forward through the underbrush while the branches of trees lash at my face, arms, and hands, cutting me and making me bleed.
When my body's cries to stop become unbearable, I pause for a moment and collapse against the trunk of a massive, ancient tree, its gnarled roots breaking through the surface of the ground and snaking along the forest floor in every direction. But immediately the sound of heavy footfalls behind me spurs me to run again, to seek a better hiding spot or even the cave itself. The land now rises sharply underneath my feet, and my muscles burn as I force my legs to carry me forward and upward. Rocks also now litter the path, of diverse sizes, some hardly more than stepping stones on my path and others large boulders standing as insurmountable obstacles that I must navigate around in order to proceed on my way. This slows my progress, but I trust it slows my pursuers' as well.
Tufts of grass. Gnarled roots of ancient trees. Fallen debris clothing the forest floor. Jagged rocks and loose stones. A landscape rising ever upward to the three high and lofty peaks, Méldjin, Gorójin, and Lándjin. Our land is rugged, cold and unpredictable, wild and dangerous, but also bears her own beauty, a beauty which has always attracted me to wander into her bosom and to sit among her trees, to perch atop her ancient stones, to walk among her dense underbrush, and to sing in my heart and at times in my voice. And now, amidst the pain of my sundered world, my slaughtered family, this beauty mysteriously beckons me, as if offering me shelter and repose. But I feel insensitive to this call and want to cry out instead in pain and rebellion. Why couldn't you save my parents, my sister? Why has their blood fallen to sink into your soil, to become but the fertile nourishment of future growth? No, I resist this thought. They deserved to live in their own right and not to die at the hands of such wicked men. If this cycle of death continues, there will be no future growth, no blossoming of new life.
Eldárien, flee.
Flee?
You are new life.
Do not let this life be engulfed in death.
My footfalls begin to pound against solid rock, free from soil and vegetation, and the path starts to descend rapidly before me and beneath me while the land continues to rise on my left and my right. Could it really be? I try to remember the landscape surrounding the cave of Séra Galáptes, but my mind betrays me. Forward, forward must bring me there. But as I try to move, my body betrays me too, and I begin to stagger in utter exhaustion.
Footsteps. Footsteps behind me. Wickedness chasing me to a bloody and terrifying end. No, the sound of footsteps that I hear is nothing but the pounding of my own racing heart echoing in my ears. Have they really given up the chase? As this thought flashes through my mind, the landscape around the cave returns to me. It is not this, but further along, above and ahead. But I realize this too late, for, in my staggering exhaustion, I slip right into a wide sinkhole that lies but eighty yards before the doors of the cave: the barrow of Séra Galáptes, the tomb of the ancient clan of Galaptéä and their long-sung and never-forgotten king, after whom the barrow is named.
The sinkhole provides little to break my fall, and I find myself tumbling headfirst over stone and then falling into the abyss. Just as I prepare to find my death through an accidental fall after escaping the jaws of the sword and axe, I find my body crashing into water, water that soon envelops me and buoys me up—some great underground pool from the rains and snows that poured moisture into this great sinking hole in the ground. And before this water, which cushioned me in my fall, begins to drown me and pull me under, becoming my tomb, I force my arms and legs to move, pulling me to the surface. My coughs echo through what seems to be a large and expansive underground cavern, though it is too dark for my eyes to see anything, even were it two inches before my face. I swim, and the swim is not a long one before my knees strike rock, and I am able to clamber out of the water and onto the shore.
I push myself to my feet, but I collapse again in pain and exhaustion. My whole body is racked with pain, both from the over-exertion of my limbs and from the fall across rock, and most of all from the overflowing suffering and anguish of the heart. But I cannot now give vent to this agony and I soon find consciousness slipping away from me. My last thoughts are the realization that my pursuers cannot find me here, in the depths of the earth, and a sense of relief for this, followed then by the depths of my heart falling out in an anguished vision: the faces of my father, mother, and sister, present before my mind's eye, whom I will never again see in this life.