The day's spells brought little to comfort him. He saw a terrible battle gathering in the High Forest, a fight he desperately wished to influence but was simply too far away to affect. He saw that his own army would likely be fighting again very soon, a rematch with the daemonfey horde, and he was not certain of the outcome. He could not see any hint of Ilsevele or Araevin, or the progress of their quest. It was as if they had been removed from the face of the world. He sensed that they were in danger, and that his own fortunes were tied up with theirs, but little more.
With a sigh, he allowed his arms to fall, and brought himself back to awareness. The brooding woodland returned to his eyes, its silence broken only by the soft whisper of cool, rain-speckled wind in the small green leaves of spring. He watched the woodland for a time, curiously drawn by its ancient, slumbering resentment, then he turned and picked his way down the slope.
Fflar was waiting for him, sitting cross-legged on a flat stone, Keryvian leaning within easy reach. He glanced up as Seiveril returned.
"Well? What did you see today?" Fflar asked.
"There will be a fierce battle on the slopes of the Lost Peaks, and soon. The wood elves have retreated as far as they can go, and still the daemonfey pursue them."
"How soon?"
"Within a day, perhaps two."
Fflar said, "Even if we left our footsoldiers behind and took nothing but our fastest cavalry, it would take a tenday to reach that corner of the High Forest. The wood elves will have to make do without our aid."
"
Perhaps I can ask Jorildyn's mages to assist," Seiveril thought aloud. "At least thirty of our wizards and sorcerers know teleportation spells. We could spare half that number to bring fifty or more spellcasters and chosen troops to assist the wood elves."
"Jerreda Starcloak will insist that you must do something. I don't like reducing our own magical strength, not with that daemonfey army ahead of us, but I don't see any other way to help out the wood elves," Fflar said. He stood easily, unfolding his long legs, and buckled Keryvian to his hip again. "What about us? When will we fight again?"
"The daemonfey will turn and stand on the Lonely Moor," Seiveril said as he swung himself up into the saddle of his war-horse, and thanked the young warrior who held the reins.
The elven vanguard was less than ten miles from the round, scrub-covered hills that climbed up to the moor's boggy plateau. Difficult terrain lay ahead of them. The cavalry would not do well on the moorland, but on the other hand archers would exact a terrible toll from adversaries seeking to close over the uneven ground. Almost no one-elf, human, orc, or otherwise-traveled those lands often, though Seiveril's Evereskan scouts told him that bands of gnolls and bugbears hunted the moor.
"We should meet them tomorrow in the middle of the day," Seiveril went on, "if we continue our pursuit."
Fflar nodded and said, "I suppose that explains why the daemonfey haven't abandoned any poor bastard who can't fly. They could have escaped by taking to the air, and there would've been damned little we could do about it."
"They still have that option," Seiveril pointed out.
The crusade marched the rest of the day, beneath gray skies and a cold, damp wind that slowly numbed the fingers and toes until they ached as if they were on fire. That night, they bivouacked on two large knolls on the long, rumpled slope climbing up to the moor proper.
The overcast hid the stars, and the cold wind simply grew stronger, until the pennants and banners fluttered and snapped like brightly colored sails. Seiveril ordered his captains to rest the soldiers as much as possible and prepare a good, hearty meal from their stores, knowing that they would need their strength the next day.
Seiveril ate little and rested not at all, finding himself too troubled to slip into Reverie. He settled for circling the camp, watching the warriors of Evermeet making ready for battle. Beneath the songs sung by the windblown cook-fires lay a note of determination and confidence that he could not have imagined when he recklessly invited any willing fighter to follow him to Faerun. How many of them would not greet the next moonrise, lying dead on a distant and useless battlefield far from home? How long might they have lived if they had remained on Evermeet?
He sat down heavily on a boulder, bowing his head in the dark night, weary with all the weight of his four and a half centuries. His mind turned to his wife, Ilyyela, dead for three short years after centuries at his side.
Am I doing the right thing, Ilyyela? he asked the night. Is this what I am supposed to do?
A soft footfall drew his attention. Seiveril looked up, and saw Fflar approaching. He waited as the moon elf hero joined him on his boulder. They sat a while in silence, each wrapped in his own thoughts against the night.
Finally Fflar said, "Where are your thoughts, Seiveril?"
"My wife, Ilyyela. She died in the war three years ago. The Tower of the Sun was destroyed by a spell cast by a circle of traitorous spellsingers, and she was in it."
"I am sorry for that, my friend," Fflar said, staring off into the blackness of the night. "I had the good fortune of preceding my wife to Arvandor. She and my son were among the last to escape Myth Drannor, in the days before the city's fall. Yet here I am now, walking the world once again, and now it is she who is gone, and my son as well. It has been six hundred years, after all. I wonder if he had children? It would be something to meet them, would it not?" The moon elf paused, and laughed softly at himself. "I miss them, Seiveril. I should not have come back."
"What do you remember of Arvandor?"
Fflar shook his head and replied, "It is only a dim dream, as you might remember a house you lived in when you were a very small child. I remember contentment, joy… I think that the gods must veil our memories when we return from death to life. Otherwise it would be an abomination to call us out of bliss, would it not? How could I stand to be parted from my wife and son a single hour otherwise?"
"Yet you agreed to return," Seiveril said. "You made that decision while Arvandor was still unveiled."
"The difficulty with attaining everything you want is that it's not enough. I recall contentment, yes, but I also recall regret. I died as a failure, Seiveril. Despite all my efforts, my city fell, my people were slaughtered, our light was extinguished. I do not know for certain why I returned, since my mind is clouded now, but I think I came back to finish what I had left undone in my mortal days." Fflar looked at Seiveril, folded his arms, and said, "You are high in the faith of Corellon Larethian. You must understand all this. Why did you call me back?"
"Because Ilyyela told me to," Seiveril said. He did not meet Fflar's gaze, but instead studied his hands, folded in his lap. "Soon after Amlaruil rallied us to repel Nimesin's attack, I attempted to resurrect my wife. Perhaps I should not have tried it, but the grief… the thought was in my heart that we were both young still, young enough to walk the world for centuries yet before departing for Arvandor together.
"Corellon did not deny me the spell. I think he knew that I had to make the attempt. At sunset of a warm summer evening I chanted the prayers and cast the spell of resurrection, and Ilyyela's spirit answered my call. But she would not cross back into life. Ilyyela, my love, come back to me,' I begged. Yet she refused. 'My time is done,' she said. 'Do not mourn for the years we might have shared in Evermeet, for we will be together in Arvandor's summer forever.'
"I pleaded with her. 'I cannot stand to be apart from you, not for the long years I might remain. I will join you in Arvandor, if you will not return.'