The whet stone rasped against the cold steel as Arenborn ran it along the length of his sword. He tested the edge, and pushed the stone along it a few more times. It was important for him to keep his sword clean and sharp, for his life was tied to it. He was sat alone in his small home, his wife out on a patrol for the knights. His armour was laid neatly on the table, bright and polished, and his sword was the final part of his weekly clean. He sharpened his blade every morning, for he used it often throughout the day.
It should have a name. He decided as he looks down at the sword. It was nothing special, his mother had told him she would commission him a new weapon for when he would be knighted, but after everything that happened, he hadn’t been knighted in Gondor, and she had never commissioned the blade for him. It would have been an elegant, beautiful weapon, crafted with the best steel by one of the best smiths of Pelargir, with a name inscribed into the blade. Aren sighed at the thought, it would be nice to have such a blade, but then he would have never met Inayat, or anyone else in the knights. It was hard to know if he missed his old life. His voice he missed, that was certain, but in a way, he was now thankful for the incident that had ripped it from him.
He had a new family now, that was what mattered. He no longer had to deal with an uncaring father or a mother who always backed her husband, even if she knew it was wrong. He was a long way from Gondor, and a long way from the man he had been when he left. He was a long way from the drunken mess of a man that had spent too much time in the Pony a few years ago.
He tested the blade’s edge again and smiled, before turning it over to do the other side.
He pondered a name for the weapon, unable to think of anything, when there was a knock on the door. He looked up with surprise, and resting his sword and whet stone on the table went to see who it was. The door creaked open, and the figure before him was slender and hooded, and the strange accent in which she bid him a good afternoon his eyes to narrow slightly.
She motioned into the house, “May I come in? There are some things I’d like to speak to you about Arenborn.” His brows raised at the fact that she knew his name, and gestured to her in response, his head tilting questioningly.
“If you must know, I'm the woman that has apparently been named as the successor to Brywyn, making me second in command of the knights. I thought it time I get to know my company.”
Aren hadn’t fared well with strangers claiming to be of the knights, and his caution remained present as he stepped aside to bid her welcome into his home. Despite his wariness, he was not about to be rude. The woman gazed around the house, “You two have a wonderful home here,” she picked up one of his gauntlets from the table, “and it’s clear you have dedication to even the menial tasks of your calling.” He didn’t ask how she knew two people lived there, but it did annoy him slightly when she picks up his armour.
He settled down and offered her a seat as she began to question him about the Order and his life. She asked why he had been tense before, and smiled when he explains that she was a hooded stranger at his door. He remained ever aware of the knife in his belt, and his sword on the table when she pointed out his guard was lowered when she claimed a position of authority and asked if he had remained cautious. “Yes, but perhaps I shouldn't show you?” He scrawled out into his book before passing it over. The strange woman nodded and passed back his book to ask about his personal life and his recent marriage. For this, he flicked through his book to find one of the drawings of Inayat he had done before passing it over to her.
“Clearly drawn with care and love. It's clear you have a deep love for her. How is she, your wife? Also a member of the knights, or merely living here in Hookworth?” She asked, shifting in her chair to get comfortable and lowering her hood. He had long suspected she was an elf, but it was nice for it to be confirmed. Aren answered by holding up a finger, the first option, “That much doesn't surprise me. It looks like she has a devoted spirit. I hope you make each other happy." She chuckled. "Thought by your expressions, it seems that way so far.”
Aren realised he had been smiling goofily as they talked about Inayat, something that he couldn’t help when thinking of her. In his spidery script he responded to her with a statement. “You speak as though you know her.”
“I knew some of you when I came here, did I not?”
“But it doesn't surprise you she is one of the knights. That indicates you've met.” Aren scribbled quickly passing the book back for her to read. He hated writing to communicate, it took far too long.
The elf maid went on to explain how she wasn’t surprised, the training gear in a heap in a corner, far too small for Aren. He had forgotten that was there and chuckled his silent laugh. His next message was simple, “Name?”
“My comrades have called me Effiriedin.”
Aren raised an eyebrow at this, an impressive name for one to bear. “Silent Death?” He asked, his brow raised as she read his question in his book. That surprised the stranger, his knowledge of the high speech. He explained how every noble born child in Gondor is familiar with it, and asked her again for her name. She was reluctant, claiming she wants to get to know him without him knowing who she was, but ultimately changed her mind.
“Most know me as Ramield. I'm glad to have met you, Arenborn Kolten.” She offered out her hand to him in greeting.
Arenborn’s lips spread into a broad smile as he recognised the name. He shook her hand long enough to be polite before breaking it away and quickly began scrawling in his book. “Ina came here looking for you, she'll be so glad to see you when she returns!”
“So I hear. I can't believe she came all this way. and I look forward to seeing her again.” She answered.
Arenborn quickly began scribbling out a number of questions. How she came to be Inayat’s aunt, where she’d been, how long she’d been gone for, and how she came to join the Knights. He wanted to know it all. She answered some then, and some later, asking him about how he and Inayat came to be married, and when it had happened. Aren felt awkward writing his answers, for it took a long and he could feel her watching him. It was uncomfortable with everyone but Inayat. He never felt like she was impatient, or annoyed at him taking his time to write a message. She was always patient and understanding about it.
They spent a long time getting to know one another, with Ramield all but interrogating him, who he was, were he came from and why he left, why he joined the knights and what he wanted to do with them. She seemed satisfied with his response, but gave him a warning as to what would happen if he harmed Inayat in any way. He had no reason to not believe her. Ramield talked of her life a bit, a highly intriguing part of their conversation for Aren, for he wanted to glean all the insight he could into the life of an immortal being, for her view the world must be so different to his it was almost impossible for him to comprehend. They spoke of Inayat’s past, her heritage, and he couldn’t help but think of how angry his father would be to learn of it. The elder Kolten had always wanted him to marry into a higher noble family, to try and raise their status that little bit more. Aren no longer cared.
It wasn’t long then till Ramield bid him fare well, and left his home to head up to the Sanctuary, and Aren found himself smiling for the rest of the evening. Inayat’s aunt had returned, the woman she had spent so long searching for. She would be so happy when they see each other, and anything that made Inayat happy made him happy.
He returned to sharpening his weapon, running the stone along his blade, and was reminded of his quest for a name. Silent Death. He thought to himself with a chuckle. It would be an adequate name for his sword. But no, he responded to the idea with a frown, my sword is my life, and my life is not death. He pondered a little more, until suddenly a smile spread back across his lips.
Melethdîn. Silent Love.
