For days he trailed the tall ridges heading east a dark form outlined against the horizon advancing with the determination of a migrating bird. He steered clear of the well-known passes where armies or quiet might pass through. Instead he pursued the abandoned trails the herder's shortcuts, the spots where maps ceased and the terrain existed on its own. He was searching for boundaries for junctions—not among kingdoms but, between modes of existence.
He discovered it in a location the ancient maps referred to as the Sprachlos Tal—the Speechless Valley.
It was not a valley filled with quiet. It was different something more nuanced. The atmosphere was crisp the hues vivid. A stream flowed through producing a noise like soft laughter. Wildflowers burst forth in bursts of yellow and purple. Yet there was no birds singing. No hum of insects. No far-, off ring of a cowbell. The existence was present. Silent. The stag he noticed drinking by the riverbank didn't snort or flinch; it raised its head droplets of water hanging from its mouth. Looked at him with profound quiet eyes before fading into the pines noiselessly.
It was a spot where the earth had merely… chosen to remain silent. Not due, to grief or plunder. Because of a serene mutual understanding. The heaviness of the Hölloch yet lacking solitude. The stillness of the Weisshorn. Missing the icy conclusiveness.
In the heart of the valley rose a towering menhir made of dark, speckled stone surpassing the height of three men. At its foot lay offerings: items. A braided garland of flowers. A round river stone. A feather, from an eagle. This served as a shrine to another deity.
Alexander stepped toward the stone. He sensed no strain, no murmuring voices. Just a deep resonant stillness that penetrated his being not as a coldness. As a soothing relief. For the moment since his descent from the summits the piercing stress, in his thoughts—the Echoes, the recollections, the unyielding surge of catastrophe—started to ease. Not eliminated,. Spread out. Allowed space to exist.
He rested with his back leaning on the sun-heated rock the pouch holding his river stone resting on his lap. He. Pondered nor plotted. He just was in the calm. He observed a butterfly its wings a burst of blue settle on a blossom noiselessly its proboscis unfurling, in elegant quiet work.
He must have been asleep because when he woke up the light had shifted.. He was no longer, by himself.
Nearby a woman sat cross-legged on the grass a few feet away. Her age was evident with her face mapped by wrinkles and her hair like a white mist. Dressed in homespun she was crafting a basket, from river reeds her hands working in a steady ageless pace. She did not meet his gaze.
He observed her labor for a period the sole noises being the river's flow and the gentle whisper of reeds brushing against each other.
At last she uttered, her tone. Arid, like the reeds themselves. "You bear an amount of clamor, traveler."
"I do " he admitted, his tone. Reverent, honoring the valley's agreement.
"It's a load. Many who arrive here come to put loads aside." She completed a stitch, her fingers skillful. "They bring a gift. A symbol of the clamor they want to abandon. Rage. Sorrow. A secret too piercing to hold in." She gestured towards the foot of the menhir.
"Is this spot meant for that? To forget?"
She smiled gently a calm gesture. "For… settling. The world contains noisy elements. Occasionally the spirit requires a cupboard to rest those noises allowing it to listen to its own breathing. This valley serves as that cupboard. The stillness here is not a conclusion. It is a… pause."
A comma. Not a full stop. A pause.
"The silence that approaches " Alexander stated, ". The silence being created… those are not commas. They are stops."
The elderly weaver gave a nod, her gaze fixed on her craft. "I have sensed them. The sharp glaring silence from the north. The gentle, craving silence, from the south. They are phrases attempting to conclude the tale." She raised her eyes, which were lucid and profound. "You are a word that refuses for the story to finish."
"I am merely a man."
"You are a word " she said softly. "A persistent one. '. ' '. ' 'Yet.'" She secured the tip of a reed. "The difficulty, with attempting to halt a period is that you have to stand in its way. You will be erased."
"I understand."
She observed him her eyes noting his fatigue, his determination, the bag he held. "What are you going to do with your noise, word-that-'sa-man?"
He gazed at the river rock. It was merely a rock.. It was his sound. The remembrance of a river, a particular valley, a particular unmuted world.
"I shall bear it " he declared. "Until the line. I will serve as the 'and' that prevents the page, from flipping."
The weaver's grin broadened. She bent down into the grass next to her. Plucked a solitary flawless reed, taller and straighter, than the rest. She extended it toward him.
He grabbed it. It felt lightweight, empty inside yet sturdy.
"A reed is an object " she remarked. "It thrives in bustling spots beside the flowing stream. It sways with the breeze yet never snaps. And if you press it to your mouth…" she performed a blowing motion "…it produces a tone. A plain tone. A signal. In hands just one note can shift the tone of a melody."
He realized. It wasn't a weapon. It was a device. An implement, for producing a deliberate sound.
He stood holding a reed in one hand and a stone, in the other. He inclined his head toward the weaver. "Thank you."
She nodded back then went back, to her weaving her presence again merging with the chosen silence of the valley.
Alexander departed from Speechless Valley ascending beyond its hold. Upon arriving at the crest the breeze struck him more carrying with it the far-off envisioned noises of a decaying world.. The overwhelming sorrow did not come back. The valley's pause had fulfilled its purpose.
He glanced at the reed he held. He refrained from blowing into it. The moment, for its sound had not arrived.
He shifted his gaze eastward again aiming at the supposed unclaimed territories of the mortal world regions gripping the outskirts of the vast mountains. He had no intention of assembling an army. He was not set to create a relic. His goal was to seek out the resolute voices. The 'buts'. The 'yets'. The recluses, the clergy, the vocalists, the creators. He planned to offer them not a war strategy. A sign. One straightforward unmistakable reminder to keep in mind for when the periods arrived.
He was no longer the Messenger, or the Apostate, or the Ghost. He was the And. And he was walking towards the end of the world with a reed and a stone, determined to make sure the last thing heard before the silence, or the stillness, was not a sigh of acceptance, but the clear, defiant, terribly human sound of a story refusing to conclude.