Hanal’Ghilan, they called it. The Pathfinder.
The Dalish said it came to them in times of great need — a thing wrought by the Creators, woven of old magics. It was a legend, in truth, that had preceded even them. Abelas remembered a boy with a different name, in a different time, with vallaslin green as a fir in winter and fresh upon his face — even then, the name of the Pathfinder was invoked in reverential whispers, uttered like a benediction.
It was said that it left its cloven mark upon the earth before even the teeming beasts of the land and sky and sea, and it was said that it would remain, even after the meanest of such creatures had breathed its last. The more daring braved to suggest it was no halla at all, and that it was not of Ghilan’nain’s making; a thing beholden to no one man nor god, but to all the People, unto eternity.
In his youth, Abelas had believed in the existence of Hanal’Ghilan with the same dubious superstition so common in the hearts of all the elvhen. It was not so impossible to subscribe to such beliefs, in a time that breathed magic as effortlessly as air, and wove it as fine as corded samite. But he had never seen it.
Not even when all Arlathan burned had the Pathfinder come to offer succor.
And so, like magic, love and belief had dimmed in his heart, until only his duty remained. Now, he had not even that with which to sustain himself. For millennia, his service to Mythal had been the tether which kept him anchored; which kept him from slipping headlong into that dark abyss, ever yawning beneath his feet since the fall of the world that he had known. He had failed Mythal twice over; first, in saving her life, and in keeping whole and sacrosanct her great and final gift to the People. Her temple breached, made profane in its ruined sanctity, and finally usurped. There had been nothing left for elvhen such as he.
And yet he could not deny the beast that stood before him now, its eyes dark and round like polished stones of jet — yet deeper, somehow, than all the oceans of the world. Abelas was never one to be surprised, and yet, impossibly, this animal had nearly come upon him without his knowing. It stood without fear, and the dying light of his campfire threw a symphony of colors over a hide that was, unmistakably, golden even beneath the great void of starless black.
His breath catches, tongue cleaving to a dry pate. He had thought himself beyond such moments of awe, he who had swept aside oceans of time like a curtain as he surrendered himself to uthenera. Time, he knew, would come to claim the temple eventually - and it had - but Abelas had become an embittered and aching soul, doggedly pressing on even as his spirit begged him to rest, to submit himself to the waking dreams of the Beyond one final time, never to awaken.
Age and tradition were the factors which molded a young elvhen devotee into a cynical and wearied keeper. Mythal the Protector demanded justice delivered with clear minds and open hearts, and these were the gifts inherent to his being which she treasured in him, the gifts Abelas had lost.
And yet it was he, above all others, to whom the Pathfinder had come. What words finally do come to him are a soft stream of uttered elvish prayers, whispered oblations lost to all the world’s memory, but his own. Those wide, intelligent eyes consider him as the elf reverentially approaches, his head bowed. This is a significant moment, more precious to him than starlight over Arlathan, than all but the grace of Mythal, of the chaste press of her lips upon his brow.
Hanal’Ghilan utters no sound at all — no soft whickers nor trumpeting cries of distress. Even as it stands before him, more resplendent in its wild simplicity than those ancient halls of burnished gold, Abelas cannot come to understand its nature. It is an ancient thing, a gift, and its presence here is mystifying to him. He yields, movements arrested. He cannot bring himself to dare lay a hand upon the creature, not even in devotion.
And yet he does not have to.
The Pathfinder steps forward, nosing into his palm. He is slow to react, the world around him lensed by water. It is only when hot tears stain the dry earth beneath his feet that he understands why. The title, he thinks, is suiting. Even in all their willful ignorance, the Dalish have not distorted this name over the long march of time. Some things, like spirits of Purpose, will always be clear. Some meanings, too.
I will endure.
He knows it with a certainty in his heart, an assurance that had eluded him, slipping through his hands like the cool waters of renewal, the waters of the Vir’abelasan. He is blinded for all his tears, and it is only when the heat of the animal, and the touch of the magics of the Beyond have faded that he knows that Hanal’Ghilan is gone.
Abelas’ vision is restored, and his eyes tell him that he is alone. But his heart, and his spirit, revived after so many years spent withered, know that he is not. There are others, elvhen who yet linger. Elvhenan is a lost and forgotten dream, a corpse whose crumbling towers sit like bleached bone against the sky — but the People remain. For the People, he will, too.