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Harken thou to the pale whisper of Iridan, the Seer, the Oracle ... Iridan who was once the man, living and breathing, even as thou -- but no longer. For long and long have I been air and sorrow, the wisp of smoke, the whisper of the wind, neither captive nor free.
Then, harken thou, for Iridan sees all things as he has known all men, since the glory days of the Old Kingdom ... and the days of Ruin which haunt the steps of living men.
Long ago, do I recall that great kings dwelt in the Outer Capital. But Zeheft is gone now, lost to the sea, where the porpoise and the crab shall hold dominion. Vayal will follow -- soon, so very soon -- but Iridan shall grieve but little for the line of its sovereigns. For a hundred generations have I watched the evil of Vayal grow and prosper, until the light of hope has flickered almost out, like the candle too long neglected.
Shall I tell thee of the great days of Diomedas, King of Zeheft, the seventh son of Aeson, and of the sons of Diomedas? Astonished wouldst thou be, if I were to tell thee that the blood of Diomedas lives on even now, while Zeheft lies sunk beneath the ocean. Royal Zeheft, that was the birthright of Diomedas's sons ... Zeheft that should have been their right of inheritance, and my own, but now gives lease to the turtle and the shark.
Yet Iridan knows the secrets of Zeheft as surely as does the last fair son of the line of Diomedas. Tall has he grown, and beautiful as the dawn light of Helios. Filled with health and the strength of youth, is this boy -- and with the power that comes to him from the line of ancient kings whose names have been expunged.
Not even the evil of Imperial Vayal can strip the power from him, though men would try, if only they could lay hands on him.
He also knows the secrets of Zeheft, and would die before he told one word of them. So he runs and hides, as his old teacher insists. He has lived all his life in the shadows, growing to young manhood while all of Vayal would wish him cold and dead for what he is.
They fear him, and well they should. But Iridan watches him still, as I have watched over him since he came into the world. Seventh son of the seventh son, of the ancient line of Nepher and Amon. Oh, he lives, and Vayal should sweat in dread.
I see Ruin. I see the fragmented kaos of the heavens themselves raining down upon the broken heads of men ... and I see such love as legends are made of.
For they are men now -- Faunos and Soran, grown to young manhood in a land where fear snaps upon the heels of happiness, and joy is a fleeting moment wrested out of the maw of dread. Love alone is worth the struggle of life. Iridan knows this, and Faunos suspects, though Soran has yet to savor the sweetness of wild honey, feel the sting of the locust, and yearn for what he cannot have.
Oh, I see love, though they have never met. I watch them both, though they have no inkling that a guardian spirit rides their shoulder. The old man knows, but he will not tell, and the young have no ears for such as Iridan. Not yet. Not until the Zeheft is engulfed and Imperial Vayal itself is lapped by green waters where the dolphin flies and the albatross sleeps on the wing...
Soon. Too soon.
But harken thee now to Iridan, Oracle. Eat of the fruit of patience, rest a while, and wait.
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