Visitor from the Havens

Mithlondhrim Quarters

This room seems almost as if it were set in the stern of a great sea-going ship and the sound of the river through the window adds to the illusion. Several comfortable armchairs are arranged near the hearth and a writing desk sits along one wall. A couple of doors lead to resting quarters.

It is late morning and only a few days from the Tirith's departure into the pass. Fealos, looking better than in previous days, sits at the desk in relaxed clothing as before, but now has his ornate, ancient sword unsheathed and is giving it a careful polish. The blade gleams flawlessly, almost playing with the light before reflecting it back. It looks almost too real, yet unreal, with the edge glimmering between reality and the dreamworld.

A subtle creak of the oaken door admits the Miruvorthaer Eryndae to the hall, with vigilance as her companion in quiet footsteps and wearied eyes. Once they have found Fealos within, the lady pushes the door close with a soft click in announcement of her arrival. For a moment she stands with her back to the wall before resuming her step and giving words to her arrival, though an initial greeter remains implied. "Exquisite. Your sword." Her voice is faint at first, as if hiding other sentiments behind its kindness. Then almost as if forgotten before, the smile fades to a more formal expression, hospitality instilled over millenia now remembered. "I brought no refreshments this time, alas. But perhaps you could do with company?"

Fealos stands and offers a bow to Eryndae, sheathing his blade quickly and setting it on the desk. Only the overly ornate hilt gilded with gold and set with bloodstones gleams in the light. "Thank you," he says in the compliment to his sword, but his eyes seem sad to give it and speak what his lips do not, that that very sword drew elvish blood with orcblood. But then he gives to her a warm smile and says, "Of course. The company is more welcome than wine. Please, let us sit." He gestures back to the comfortable chairs at the fire and lets her proceed first.

The lady musters a weak but well-meant smile, empathy a gift strong enough with her that little need be said as to what is best left alone. Thus her gaze turns at length from the sword to the hearth, feet soon to follow as Eryndae sinks into a chair with a sigh of release. Palms then smooth languidly over the pale silk of her gown as she looks up to Fealos. "I had hoped to find you alone soon enough. If I were to venture a guess," she says with voice and eyes of equal focus as she inclines her head to him, "I would say this day finds you in better spirits than the last."

Fealos stands before her as she sits and speaks, then nods once. "Because I have reason to leave this room, as I have volunteered my sword for to the company that travels to the pass. I fear I am not used to being couped up. After all, I am a lord in Mithlond and am hardly kept to a room." He smiles weakly, then sits. "But I am appreciative that I still remain here, and am glad your commander has seen fit to let me travel with them."

"I myself cannot imagine suffering a single room, and as no more than a vintner and swordsman," she chuckles, her words a melody. "You have endured much more, I am certain, and yet it is clear what punishment this would be to a free spirit. That those foremost among maethori would have your sword raised alongside theirs speaks well for your welcome when you return with the patrol...if in fact you mean to return anew?" More an honest inquiry than a judgement, argent eyes flicker with contrasting golds and coppers from the low-burning fire in the hearth.

"Return anew, lady?" Fealos asks. He looks at her again, that same sort of look he first gave her in the vinyard before Elladan's arrival, then he smirks and sets his fingertips together. "I am too old to learn new tricks, I think. I shall be lucky not to cut my own leg off, I think." He is, obviously, exaggerating, for he managed to survive the great wars in one piece.

"I shall hope the commanders have horses along, for surely carrying you back would lessen what gratefulness they would have of your services," Eryndae chuckles, near to open laughter, yet still held back by the serenity inherent in her manner. After a pause that would seem long to some, mirth fades a bit as wintery eyes focus on Fealos' features, shameless in intensity as they often are. "I rather meant to ask if you will return to Imladris to conclude what matters have brought you here. I confess not to know them."

"Unless I meet my death, I hope to do so," he answers softly. "What brought me here was to being a new volume for your library and to work on a few books that might need some special repairs to keep them undamaged and readable. I have a few here that I am working on." He gestures to the desk and behind his sword are a number of books in various stages of repair. "I was hoping to stay the winter and return home in the spring." He does, however, smirk at her joke, which does amuse him.

"That is awhile indeed, and not to be spent in one room alone. Tis easier for you to visit the library than for it to come to you." A pause accompanies a soft sigh in thoughtful consideration. "Nonetheless, the Istfariath will surely benefit from work learned of the ages you have seen. I speak not for all, but know one who thinks so." 'Confession' stands, and yet the slow arch of a flaxen eyebrow speaks volumes of both what Eryndae might know, or perhaps what she has yet to understand.

Fealos stands and walks to the window, the sunlight glimmering on his profile. "I am certain you speak of Tatharwen..." This is all he says as he clasps his hands behind his back.

Eryndae says nothing at first, rather following his retreat with discerning eyes that search for meaning wherever they may find it. "Would it be any other?" she asks, a question clearly meant to lead further without needing an answer.

He says without any inflection of voice, "Unless you know something I do not, lady. Though I am normally not one for leading questions, so if you have something to ask me..." He turns and looks at her, meeting her gaze with one of light challenge.

Eyes wrought of winter yet not untouched by warmth, blink against a quickly challenge met in spite of her nature. "Am I to ask the questions, lord? For I thought you wished my opinion on a matter I know little of." Weariness forgotten in favor of interest, the elder vintner leans forward in her chair, burnished locks a frame for a firelit countenance that has lost all trace of indifference.

Eryndae softens in features and voice alike once the weight of his gaze is returned to the window. "In some ways, she reminds me of myself in past years, though the Herdir's valley is not Lindon. She has learned much of her craft in her father's spirit, and in kindness she is wise beyond her years." At length her eyes lift to the window once more, and Fealos before it. "I see her little beyond our time in the vineyards, yet it is enough to see her pain."

"Pain?" he asks, looking back at her, but the fierceness of his gaze is tempered by concern. Though because of her first words, that the young Tatharwen reminds Eryndae of herself, he looks at her perhaps slightly differently, as if looking for something in her eyes, something deeper than her appearance as he steps toward her again.

The vintner straightens her shoulders and breathes deeply of the fire-warmed air. Hesitation stays her words momentarily, even as lips part to allow them long before they would be heard. "It surprises you?" she murmurs, clearly taken a bit aback herself as the intensity of her gaze falters irreparably under the Noldo's scrutiny. "She may be young, but there is naught like love to steal youth from those it afflicts. Surely it is to be expected..." Yet here Eryndae's voice fades down to a whisper, and though her eyes remain with him, a part of their soul retreats within to her own thoughts for a moment.

Fealos lifts a blood-sable brow, then releases her from his gaze, moving to pour two glasses of water. He brings one to her, which he sets on the table in front of her chair. "She thinks she loves me, yes, though I have tried to tell her she likely does not. I am unlovable. But she very much has herself convinced that she does. I merely think she is taken with the idea of me more than .. well, who I really am."

Eryndae drinks gladly of the proffered water, eyes searching its depths until she seems to find her composure therein. "Would ever you give her the chance to know more than the idea? Beyond a childhood by the sea, or a winter in darker days? Both fade. And if your beliefs of her heart are true, then so will the love she clings to now."

Fealos sits again and sips his water. "I tell her all she would wish to know about me. I keep her in friendship. I even kissed her, in the hope it would dissuade her from her passions, though it did not seem to, so I more believe the validity of her feelings. But I am afraid I cannot see myself through her eyes. She says she desires strongly to wed me, yet I try to tell her that if that happened, she would suffer the most torturous memories I hold, and that she should not wish that for herself." He frowns then, his brows pressing together slightly. "Not to mention that my age is of some consideration and I am not sure I feel up to marrying anyone." He looks out at the window again, a faint color rising to his cheeks.

A smile reflects an undercurrent of peace still enduring somehow in Eryndae's mood, if faint. "Though not near to your years, I have seen many of my own. Wisdom is mine no more for what I have seen and read than what I have felt. I believe that therein lies her struggle as well, though I presume to know her heart no more than what she has shared of it. Yours, it seems, presents an even graver mystery. Whether or not your heart is with hers," she says all the more softly, head tilting subtly to the side as hesitation creeps into her demeanor once more. "...What would it seek?" Though gently posed, the softer timbre of a voice normally crystalline treats the subject with appropriate sensitivity.

"My heart? It seeks only forgiveness, redemption, atonement," he says softly, yet deeply. "Yet events here have proven to me that I am even farther from that than I hoped to fear. This is why I shall help clear the pass. I have no love for battle. I have seen my share, both for the right and for the wrong. I fear death, I do not look for it, yet sometimes I feel it is my only escape. Yet I can never manage to face it. I am a coward and a traitor, and so you see why none could truly love me." He looks at her sadly, the proud lordliness in his eyes replaced by the tender feelings felt by any living creature.

An elder to many, here the Miruvorthaer falters, the challenge Fealos presents betrayed by her furrowed brow and eyes kindled with concern. "Yet I hope you will not blame those who would dare to try," she utters at last, as much an admission of her sincerity. "I know none who can offer that which you seek, save Those in utter West. The rest offer what we may, though it cannot be enough without your own forgiveness. Or love." Here she meets his eyes, intensity renewed in a new light of compassion and empathy. "I worry not for Tatharwen, lord. She suffers, and well may for some time. But there is strength in her youth, regardless of end or beginning. I know you mean not to hurt her."

"No, I do not wish to hurt her," he admits, "and I do enjoy her company, but love ... I cannot find it within me. I do not know why Eru gives us love or why we feel it for one and not another. I wish I could love, for her, to bring some happiness into the world. But I cannot force my heart, and perhaps I am unreasonably romantic, but ..." and here he looks down, "I was always hoping to ... to just know someday. To see someone and know I loved them when I looked into their eyes."

Though fair are the Eldar beyond all races, Eryndae pales noteably as her gaze drops with his to settle steadily upon hands clasped tightly around her glass. "A fond sentiment. And if it makes you unreasonably romantic, then I will confess to have been the same once." She sips absently from her drink. "But to wish for love promises to be as fruitless as a wish for death. At least for me."

Fealos looks at her and smiles kindly, "I cannot imagine that many have not professed their love for you. You are lovely and you command the virtues of widsom and temperence." He laughs lightly and says, "If I were not such an old goat ... ah, but I am worse than an old goat. I am an old, foul-tempered goat that does not know a basket from a biscuit. But I understand what you say of love. I feel I have only glimpsed it once in my life, but the circumstances of that were ... quite grim and sad and I do not know, really whether it was love or pity that stirred my heart in the end. But it changed me and I cannot forget it."

Sadness brings new color to Eryndae's eyes, even as his brief lightening of mood brings a weakened smile to her lips. "Then as of voice of hope and advocate of love, may I be so bold as to hope you shall remember her? You are too kind in your words, lord, and perhaps I am too eager in accepting them without giving you time to learn the truth of me," she chuckles softly, her voice fluid with sincerity. "But still I wish this for you, whether you find it in another or in memories of the past. I would ask of it, but I feel I have troubled you enough for the entire winter already."

Fealos shakes his head, his red-black hair dusting his eyes, "Do not feel that way, unless you feel my company a burden to you. I would rather experience this than what awaits me in the past, or be left to dwell within my own memories, whether they be good or dark. I should not want to fade away and be only a song on a lost breeze..." His voice is then sad, perhaps pained, as he knows the story of Maglor, and his presumed fate.

"Your company is no burden to me. And if mine is neither a burden to you, than I shall worry no more of it." This spoken matter-of-factly, Eryndae suddenly seems to remember the glass of water that has long been held tight in her grasp. She takes a sip, lowering her glass to reveal a thoughtful smile over its rim. "There are those who will not forget," she intones softly, her voice itself not unlike a lonely breeze, shifting momentarily in its whispered song. "Does a lord of the Havens hold close counsel with any on such matters? Were it my choice, I would seek the sea alone to share them with. To wander the lands seems a lonely existence, and yet not far sundered from what many seek when years begin to fade."

"I possess still retainers few, but I hold them in close counsel and had the joy of watching their families come forth and grow. Think not of me that I wander lonely. I have an estate in the city, and I bind the tome that rest in our libraries." He smiles at this. "I have my moments of wandering, certainly, but really, I lead quite a dull life for perhaps it does not contain the glory of the past, but perhaps now I care more for knowledge and history of others than making it myself."

"I have seen little of Mithlond in this age. Perhaps it has indeed seen all of me that it shall, though my hopes uphold that I will see the sea again." Eryndae continues through a brighter smile. "There is glory in that, from the view of a humble vintner, and retainer herself." Though her interest does not fade visibly from her manner, her eyes drift toward the window and are overcome with a new sparkle... that of disappointment. "It may never be a work of glory, but this vintner should see to matters in the fields, nearly forgotten. The harvest is not forgiving." With an apologetic half-smile to Fealos, the lady places her glass on the fireside table and stands slowly from her chair.

Fealos stands with her, from politeness more than going anywhere himself, obviously. "I thank you for your visit to me, lady, and I am glad you could relieve a few moments of my day from my thoughts. It eases my heart to know that I am not so utterly loathed that I might not find a repast from myself with another now and then. Your company, as yourself, has been lovely." He smiles at her, his ancient eyes unreadable, yet an almost youthful playfulness lights them almost obscuring his age with a more lively spirit.

Halfway turning towards the door, Eryndae looks along her shoulder with a soft, easy smile. "You are a gracious host, Fealos," she muses, his subtle playfulness mirrored in her argent gaze. Firelight fades from her face with each step from the door, all but paled on fine features as she turns back once more from the door as she pulls it open. "I do hope you shall return with my cousin's company of Tirith with all four limbs attached. I know few who are quite as fond of visiting the infirmary." Her brighter grin then disappears behind the great door, and Eryndae slips into the hallway in a whisper of silken skirts.

Thu Nov 14 19:25:18 2002