Book One – Chapter 2

So far then .e̫ͧ̐m̝̜͂r̹͇̫̖͒ạ̷̡̘̟̯́ͅͅh͍͎l̮͇͓̀ a̲l̥͙̦̀M̵̴͡Ą̴̼̗̪R̀ might mean anything from the territory where mothers were lost, to the border beyond which nothing is born. One sounded historical. The other sounded cosmological. Together, they achieved the impressive linguistic feat of being ambiguous to the point of paradox, while still giving Yves absolutely nothing he could use. He could not debate, defend or dismiss these translations. Neither meaning was complete until he figured out what k̛͎͎̻̐͑̊͡hͦ͢a͚̤͋r̸̝̳͂̌̑̍u̲n̞̉. meant.

That was the thing.

You do not read Faramyr linearly, from top to bottom or left to right. It is read circularly, though not reliably so. More accurately; one rune guides you towards the next. Its form, position, scale and relation establish where the reading continues. If fail to recognise that guidance, if you lose the connecting thread or never grasp in the first place, there is no use in guessing. On your own, you could run endless circles through the same arrangement of runes without ever discovering which one was supposed to come next. Now, spoken Faramyr introduces an entirely separate array of problems—

                but this was not the time to get into that.
       It was ridiculous. That was really all you need to know.

Yes, Yves should very much not distract himself any further with his recurring fixation on very occasional and perfectly normal thoughts about witches and their doings. Indeed, he should did not care about the complexity of their everlasting language, or even about the translation. Especially not at this moment. Not here and now. Kneeling there, straining over the edge of the shattered arch and staring far down into the burning crater, Yves did not need a fucking word puzzle. He needed an explanation.