It was a radiance absent for three thousand years, and a voice absent for three thousand years.
And a history absent for three thousand years.
Azmor walked forward step by step, just as he had so many years ago, when he had first earned the right to enter the temple as a druid apprentice. Back then, he had followed behind his mentor, climbing the magnificent and solemn steps and stone-paved slope with a devout heart. Behind him now, several priests followed closely in his footsteps, standing in rows on either side according to their former duties.
This was the most exalted audience ritual, and not a single step could be taken carelessly. Though even the youngest among them was already thirty-seven hundred years old, these decrepit elves still planted every footfall as steadily as mountains, without the slightest error.
Amun lay quietly in the center of the courtyard, watching the elves approaching him with gentle eyes. Every one of their faces was vastly different from those in his memories. Three thousand years had passed; even elves with their long lives had long reached the end of their lifespan. These elves, who had already been at least middle-aged back then, had survived until today only through the baptized "blessings" they had received and their powerful will to live. Those wrinkle-covered faces were deeply etched into Amun's eyes, gradually merging with certain figures in his memories... until they finally became a sigh.
"Azmor, you have grown very old," he said softly.
"My lord..." Azmor continued walking forward step by step. When the god's voice entered his ears directly, he finally spoke in a trembling voice. "We have searched for you for three thousand years..."
"You should not have searched for me," Amun sighed softly. "I had my reasons for leaving—and you could