Little Boy Of The Mountain Y
--Y--
He remembered that time in his youth. He had been bitten. So curious it had been. The great green wyrm of his grandmother's glade. He slowly hobbled the last few yards to the High Path. It's great marble blocks, intricately interlocked in fine-hewn geometric patterns shone pale in the light of the bolts of the heavens. He had not remembered the High Path was so constructed. But something clicked. He thought back to the upgrading of the roads in the time of his first Empire. He had caused to be taken up again the tradition of cylindrical seals for road markers. He looked at the crossing post, and it was smooth and had it's metal cap. There were graven symbols written all over it.
Suddenly he realized... The Letters! Ancientry! His letters. The true-writ. The books of Lore had began. His Great Library. And the first little library. Ah! The wizards had come to his City. They had dreamed the letters in their own time, but they saw only strange curses, which they had pondered together in wonder and fear, and awe of possibilities. They still feared them in those days. They did not know their purpose. They had yet to piece together the Order. There were great researches. There were too the great fleets of the sea. His fleets. He had seen the sea... and sailed it!. He had built and he had fought and he had studied and he taught.
O Elvenhome!
He remembered it all.
He had forgotten that he was tired.
He was so very tired.
Zöe's faint voice he heard again from behind him: "You heard the sea-birds' call and you did not follow. Though always I have shadowed your trail, follow me now."