“This much is true, it is the way of light for Amme to birth, tend, care for and watch life grow. It is however the way of darkness to kill, leech off of our glory days and grow fat on the carcasses of our joy.
Do not be fooled. Ornore is no Amme. Ornore is Urdu. Let Lome swallow the Cano into the unending depths of Lomenore, that wretched ancient beast of death.“
My most beloved Adar. It is in great sadness that I lyr before you. My grief came upon me in the days following your greatest gift. Our hina grew in beauty and laughter and so did our companionship. The fruits of Nore sustained us all and we enjoyed the gift of your Ilfirincala; the gift of life.
I suppose I should have wondered why all seemed glorious after my near slip at the start of all things. For you see, Ornore had sought my life from me even then. Why I cannot say for Ornore is Amme and your fellow commanding one.
When Ornore failed to claim my life from me at the edge of stable things where land meets water, Ornore returned to claim another. That ancient thief, that vile indigent of an Amme set its gaze upon the flame of my life; upon my beloved Yeldenore.
Adar, she is dead. She is gone from me and it does not matter how much I call for her. She will not return.
So I curse the day that I broke apart from you and set foot upon the countenance that is Ornore’s back. Curse this great wood and the overwhelming sadness it has brought. There is no greatness here apart from the malevolence of Ornore and the sorrow your kin has brought upon me and my hina.
In our joy we did not see it. Death came upon us all as a stalker in the night. Lome, of course, that ancient beast of darkness offered death cover. In the absence of light, death stabbed her.
The coils upon Yeldenore’s crown immediately lost their moonlit sheen and her starlit eyes faded into a hazel din. When morning came and I beheld her, I assumed it was an effect of the birth and assured her it would relent. Adar, how very wrong I was.
Ornore it seemed had been feeding on Yeldenore’s life force from the day of her waking. That leeching thief diminished the Ilfirincala you placed inside of my vesse slowly until there was no more starlight left to sustain her. Then that devourer fed my flame to death.
Ornore inflicted her. Yeldenore crooned and bent over in pain. Her hair blackened, stiff and dry and her skin wrinkled, cracked and bled. It was not long before she breathed her last and alas would never speak again. Death had its way with her.
The ground swallowed her lifeless form and the daertrees fed on it. Their barks turned black and their leaves sprouted blood red as the nectar that had sustained her. Now Ornore wears my vesse as an ornament. The thief taunts me in every daerwood tree I see with Yeldenore’s beauty, yet deprives me of her.
Tell me you cano and answer me you wretched ground. Have you raised us up that you should end us? Have you brought me here only to cause me great sorrow? If so I do not want to steward your great wood. I do not want any life that is without Yeldenore.
You have touched the flame of my flame and snuffed out the light of my light. You wear her upon your blackened form like an ornament of achievement. Wretched beast! Foul monster! Thief!
Hear me now clearly and hear me well prince of death. You shall not touch another as long as I have breath. I am the son of Orelen, the Cundu of Elennore. His Ilfirincala burns within my veins.
This much is true Ornore, you thief, you Orurdu, Commander of Death! I will avenge my beloved. I assure you, as light always overcomes darkness, I will surely have my revenge.