“But what if I want to come home? What if it's all too strange, and I get frightened? What if I miss you all too much?” Linneth suppressed a laugh, looking at the small face of her daughter, crumpled with worry. She held out her arms, and Caethel ran forward and scrambled on to her lap, pressing her face against the front of her mother's robes. Gently, Linneth stroked her hair, waiting until Caethel pulled back a little and stared up into her face, grey eyes clouded with anxiety.
“Sweetheart, we are not sending you away forever, to live somewhere with strangers!” She finally reproved her young daughter, one hand softly smoothing the loose strands of her hair away from her face so that she could plant a kiss on her forehead.
“It is only for one night, and you will have such a wonderful time with your friends that you will hardly miss us! You wouldn't want to disappoint them all, would you? They have asked for you to stay specially, for their celebration. Besides, I don't think you will find it very strange really. You have been to their house before, and didn't you tell me it was just like ours?” Caethel wriggled slightly in embarrassment, and Linneth let her arms drop so that her daughter could stand before her once more, looking shamefaced.
“Caethel, it's natural to be nervous, or shy, sometimes. But you shouldn't let that stop you from having fun! Now why don't you run along and pack your things, and I will come up in a second and see whether you have everything.” With another affectionate smile, Linneth turned back to tidying away her tools, listening to the soft sound of her daughter scrambling out of the room to obey her suggestion.
“Psst. Cae!”
Caethel whipped around, startled by the sound, scowling when she saw him standing there. “You shouldn't sneak up on me like that!”
Her brother grinned, stalking forward confidently, to poke through her bag. “Sorry. I thought you'd hear me coming, since you're going to be a scout and all.” Caethel scowled again, and he laughed and ruffled her hair, ignoring her irritated protests. “Anyway, you forgot something.”
“What?” Caethel turned back to her bag, exceptionally neatly packed, at least until he had started making a mess of it. “I didn't forget anything!”
Her brother produced a small candle from somewhere, with the air of someone performing a magic trick, and she stared at him in confusion.
“Tah-dah! My gift to you!”
“I think they have their own lamps...” Caethel began, puzzled, but he laughed at her again, and hastily interrupted:
“Be quiet, chatterbox, and let me talk for once!” Caethel blushed hotly, but was quiet while he explained. “This is for your window. It burns red, see? That way, if you get too scared, you can light it, and I'll come and bring you home.”
For a moment, his small sister seemed uncomprehending, but as she began to understand, all the worry vanished from her face. “Oh! It's like a secret signal!”
“Exactly. It can be our secret signal, little bird. And if you're ever on your own somewhere, and worried, this way you know I'll always come for you.”
He was interrupted by Caethel hurling himself at him, breathless with excitement at the idea.
She hadn't lit the candle in the end. Her mother was right, and she and her friends had spent so much of the evening inventing archery contests, and playing hide-and-seek in the forest that by the time they were called inside, she rested easily, curled up between her two closest friends. Still, she'd kept it with her, tucked inside her cloak, on every trip she'd taken after that, reassured by the security it offered. She missed its slight, comforting weight now.
The wind is chill, and seems almost to push through her in its race across the mountain slopes. Out here there are no trees to break its force, only endlessly whirling snow dancing in its wake. Caethel curls herself tighter inside her cloak, back pressed against the brazier by the edge of the plateau, arms wrapped around her slim frame. A little way away, she can hear the small, reassuring sounds of Luthelian on watch. Tancamir is off on patrol again, she does not know where Yrill is, and Lord Dolthafaer is occupied with some serious business with Lord Tindir, so for now, it is just her and Luthelian, surrounded by Hammer warriors. At least Luthelian has returned – she had been so relieved to hear that her friend had been forgiven, and delighted to be sharing watches with her once more.
Even so, she feels outnumbered. The voices of the others are harsh and unfamiliar, and now that the small group of other elves from the Greenwood have left their company, there seems to be no one who speaks as she does. It is not surprising that they all look so strangely at her. In their talk of 'unseasoned' Greenwood warriors, she learns that they know little of her home, or the life she has come from – and even if she would not blame them for it, the gulf now seems even harder to breach with just words. She cannot imagine a people could remain 'unseasoned' who lived like those under siege in the murky wood that her home has become, learning to live through loss and the creeping despair that comes of seeing their lands devoured by darkness.
She must do better, if they are ever to think otherwise of her people, these loud, hammering Noldor. She has shot well enough so far, even landing a few on the strange, ice-troll-monster-creature they'd found, kept watch diligently, and done all Lord Dolthafaer has asked. Yet, still, she has disappointed him, in the trouble with Luthelian, and her own myriad small failings. She must do better – be more prepared, work harder, do anything that is needed until she has proven that she can do this. That she is worthy to stand among them. She fears for Luthelian, too, for the consequences that may come of her friend's bravery and enthusiasm, even as she admires those qualities. In her heart, she knows that she will never be the sort of interesting person who could hold enough influence to dissuade Luthelian from trouble, but she will wish, for now, that the reminder of Lord Dolthafaer's anger will hold greater sway. She does not wish to see Luthelian sent away again.
The wind rips across the lands once more, and Caethel tucks herself smaller still, hiding her face in the shadows of her cloak, and closing her eyes as if she can replace the bleak surroundings with the woods and trees of home simply by imagining them there. As if instead of the wind whistling, she can hear birds singing, every note as familiar as her own voice. As if instead of the crisp snap of snow underfoot, she can hear the soft rustle of leaves above and below. As if she is warm, at home, safe. Not out here in the cold.
