He wanted rest; he had earned rest. But the release which had brought him to his present dim peace had been to expensive. He could not approve.
Foamfollower is dead, he murmured silently.
There was no escape from guilt. No answer covered everything. For as long as he managed to live, he would never be clean.
He did not think that he could manage to live very long.
Yet something obdurate argued with him. That wasn't your fault, it said. You couldn't make his decisions for him. Beyond a certain point, this responsibility of yours is only a more complex form of suicide.
He acknowledged the argument. He knew from experience that lepers were doomed as soon as they began to feel that they were to blame for contracting leprosy, were responsible for being ill. Perhaps guilt and mortality, physical limitation, were the same thing in the end - facts of life, irremediable, useless to protest. Nevertheless Foamfollower was gone, and could never be restored. Covenant would never hear him laugh again.
"I am Mhoram son of Variol, High Lord by the choice of the Council. I declare that from this day forth we will not devote ourselves to any Lore which precludes Peace. We will gain lore of our own - we will strive and quest and learn until we have found a lore in which the Oath of Peace and the preservation of the Land live together. Hear me, you people! We will serve Earthfriendship in a new way."
As he finished, he lifted the krill and tossed it high into the air. It arced glinting through the sunlight, struck water in the center of Glimmermere. When it splashed the potent water, it flared once, sent a burn of white glory into the depths of the lake. Then it was gone forever.
High Lord Mhoram watched while the ripples faded. Then he made an exultant summoning gesture, and all the people around Glimmermere began to sing in celebration:
Hail, Unbeliever! Keeper and Covenant,
Unoathed truth and wicked's bane,
Ur-Lord Illender, Prover of Life:
Hail! Covenant!
Dour-handed wild magic wielder,
Ur-Earth white gold's servant and Lord -
Yours is the power that preserves.
Sing out, people of the Land -
Raise obeisance!
Hold honor and glory high to the end of days:
Keep clean the truth that was won!
Hail, Unbeliever!
Covenant!
Hail!
They raised their staffs and swords and hands to him, and his vision blurred with tears.
----------------------Their voices drifted away, left Covenant alone in his bed.
He was thinking dimly, A miracle. That's what it was.
He was a sick man, a victim of Hansen's disease. But he was not a leper - not just a leper. He had the law of his illness carved in large, undeniable letters on the nerves of his body; but he was more than that. In the end, he had not failed the Land. And he had a heart which could still pump blood, bones which could still bear his weight; he had himself.
Thomas Covenant: Unbeliever.
A miracle.
Despite the stiff pain in his lip, he smiled at the empty room. He felt the smile on his face, and was sure of it.
He smiled because he was alive.
What an ending...what an ending. It left me speechless and in tears.
~Foamy~