The silver forest before us evoked visions of lovely gray houses, warm and cozy despite their masonry. Gardens of rocks, pebbles and boulders would flash before our eyes. Valleys full of wispy silk would take the place of passing clouds. Tall pillars of gray stone appeared that rivaled the heights of the silvery pines. And we thought also of the people with silver hair and white faces, wearing beautiful robes embroidered with the colors of the mountains.

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“Well” he began in his swift silver voice. “The Iravan are made of something softer that what we Aravon are made of. You can find it in their language, their posture, their gestures, their clothing, even their weapons and houses. Whereas we Aravon have houses that seemed to have been carved from the mountains using sharp tools, the Iravan’s homes seemed to have sprouted and grown like the trees they love. Like the smoothness of their language, their homes and buildings rarely have a sharp edge. Quite unlike our people who live our lives like the sharpness of our swords.”

It was hard for me to imagine a soft world. Xiaytaru was a sharp city of stone houses and silver roofs. Our houses were close and crammed like our families, and public buildings would sport tall spires that hearkened to Mordon’s fingers outside the walls. There were always corners to hide behind and many steps to climb due to the uneven mountain ground. Even our archways ended in an arrow point.

The very architecture of our stone city would reflect back into our distant history, when the father of the Aravon founded his own city in the high mountains of Nihoni the dragon island, near the cave of Mito-ka where he forged the first swords. Xiaytaru was well suited for the people descended from the first sword master. Even our language would reflect the sword smith in our blood. Swift and sharp like the slashing of swords glittering in the bright moonlight, sharply contrasting the Iravin tongue with its subtleness that was water flowing from a spring.

“It is important for us to speak and understand Iravin well” Mother would often say “Since it is the language that binds us to the Iravan and to the Empire of Areniv.”

With all the stress being placed in learning the Iranian tongue, it was not uncommon for us youngsters to wonder what our city was like before the tall white-haired Iravan came and fed us their language, which we swallowed easily and willingly. We would often ask the elders to tell tales of the time when Xiaytauen was the only language. The elders would kept silent. We youngsters would assume that they were keeping some sort of secret from us. A secret we were determined to uncover once we were grown. But as we grew capable of understanding complicated words and sentences, we found that the secret was no secret at all. It was not only written in the public records, but in the walls of the city were younger stones were used to patch up the once besieged walls. It resounded in the abandoned watchtowers and barracks where we would climb to look at the cloud ocean many miles away. It existed within the houses too big for the families they sheltered and in the solemn faces of the elders when we would ask about those distant eras.

The history of our city was no secret. The Iravan came during these distant brutal times and brought peace to our lands and to our ancestor’s weary hearts. This was the reason the elders relinquished their independence for the protection and guidance of the nobler race. This was the reason why they silenced us. Yet we did not need the elders to speak. Our city has been lamenting for so long, yet rejoicing so recently. Only now we are beginning to understand it’s sorrowful song.