Shadowed



      He comes to me with shadows in his eyes. We sit with our backs to a stone statue, facing out over the river, but Galdorion's eyes are distant, looking at something I cannot see. His conversation is hesitant, his smile as brittle as glass. It is as though a cloud has passed across the sun, although the dawn still seems as bright as ever. We have walked these paths before – I know what is coming almost before Galdorion opens his mouth to tell me. I sit silently, listening, hoping he cannot see the dismay in my face. I try to be glad at least that this time the trouble is minor – and when Galdorion turns tear-filled eyes to mine, I try to smile, to reassure him that my love and my faith are not so damaged by this as he believes. I hope he cannot see the fear that sits on my heart like a hunched carrion-bird, weighing it down until the beauty of the day is entirely overshadowed.

     I do not believe that there are still curses in this world. Once, I know, whole generations and peoples bore dooms laid upon them through death and despair, and the remnants of those people still bear the fates that were laid upon them and their families. But the world has changed since then – those who might give such curses no longer linger to watch our actions. Still, there are times when I wonder. When Lord Anglachelm's foreshadowings awake in the back of my mind and stir me to fear. When Themodir's jibes seem more truthful than I can ever admit, when it seems as though we are doomed to fall before the same foes again and again. We walk the same paths over and over, and although it seems as though we break free to love and rejoice and live peacefully, still something comes back to force us back.

     Now we must return to the valley, and once more expect to find judgement and condemnation waiting there for us. I turn away from Galdorion's misery to look out at the quiet river, at the houses reflected in its gleaming waters, the docks which begin to stir into early-morning action. We have been happy here, in this peaceful land. I turn back to hear the rest of Galdorion's tale come stumbling into the open – his guilt tangling around his words, adding only confusion. Slowly, it becomes clear that this time Galdorion is not even confessing to his own crime, and a slow anger builds in me as I listen, although I try to keep every trace of it from my voice. I am not surprised that he gave way to Rildheldiel's insistence – she is persuasive enough – only that she could be so thoughtless as to involve Galdorion in her petty schemes and cruel ploys. Perhaps she is too new to the House to realise what thin ice Galdorion and I tread, and how much trouble she could cause for us. Even now, there are plenty of people in the very highest ranks of Vanimar who would like nothing more than to see us disgraced and sent away. A part of me wonders whether Rildheldiel realised this when she stirred up an excuse for them to do so. I hope not. Either way, I know now that I must speak with her as soon as we return. I will not stand by and allow others to use Galdorion in this way – of that I am certain.

     The clouds begin to gather on the horizon in truth as Galdorion eventually leaves to see about some errand. A chill breeze lifts and stirs the branches of the trees. As I watch, a single leaf drifts into the air, and falls slowly towards the river. Somehow in the time we have spent here, summer has faded.