Mortals: A Case Study (A Counter-proposal)
Torech Besruth, Falathlorn, Lindon
10 Quellë in the Reckoning of Imladris
Time is no longer my ally, to say nothing of my friend. Nor are all the leagues from Falathlorn to the Bree-land. To ride from the Lair to the doorstep of the Prancing Pony is four days' journey; three, if one would push their mount to the limit of endurance. Which is precisely what I did to my trusting mount, Gairion. My retreat from Bree, when the Mortal Cutch Crane made his astounding declaration to me, took me five days' ride back to Falathlorn, because I used the time to try and collect my thoughts and make a plan for how I could answer his suit.
I have a suitor. That simple fact and truth, at this writing, still astonishes me. My return west, then three days and nights researching at the Lair, and now the return to Bree has cost me the better part of a fortnight; and still does not seem enough time to render a proper response to Cutch's suit. Nor does it even take into account how I was still wrestling with the definition of what I myself was feeling at this moment.
I had timed my arrival in Bree to be just before sunset when the town gates closed; that also allowed me to secure lodgings at the Inn, or so I had planned. When I arrived and inquired of accommodations, I was told there were no rooms available, not even the rooms set aside for the Halflings. I next called on the scribes I knew at Scholar's Walk; they welcomed me at the Scholar's Hostel near High Bridge. I did not sleep that night, simply meditated in silence on what the next day would bring.
Morning saw me take my leave and return to the Prancing Pony, thinking I would find Cutch there as before; for this fateful encounter, as I thought it, I wore my scarlet gown which others had told me I looked my best in. A sizable throng was already in the common room, several travelers loudly calling for food and service. All talk muted as I passed through the room, and I could feel eyes following my every step. After two discreet inquiries, I learned that Cutch might be found at the town Mess Hall. I left the Inn, murmurings in my wake as I closed the door behind me.
The Mess Hall, apparently a large cooking facility which the whole town might use, stands in the southwest corner of the Market Square, just south of the Inn. As I entered the building, my nose was instantly assailed by a dozen or more delectable aromas, savory smells, and off to my left a clatter of cookware arose. There, laboring in front of a blazing oven, stood Cutch, an apron over well-worn clothes smeared with stains from past meals.
I got his attention with an exaggerated cough, and the sudden smile from his care-worn face gave me a queer flutter. Looking down at his soiled apron, he quickly untied it before crossing the room, stopping short of embracing me; I simply embraced him in greeting. As we stood there, locked in each others' arms, he told me he had begun to worry over my absence and silence, thinking something may have either befallen me, or that I had chosen to sever any contact.
I was amused at his worry, and told him so; not in a belittling sense but that his worry was unfounded. Relieved slightly, he showed me to a seat near the oven where he was working As I sat watching his labors, he managed to surprise me once more with his culinary art: he swiftly returned to my side bearing a pot of red-leaf tea, a strawberry tart seemingly fresh from the oven - and even served on red pottery plates! The fact that none of this was anywhere in sight when I entered added further to my surprise.
I politely tucked in (politely in the sense I didn't wolf it all down), and he sat with me making small-talk inquiries as to where I had been the past two weeks. In between mouthfuls, I told him of the travel time involved between Bree and Falathlorn; when I had finished the tart, and was sipping the tea, I explained what I had been researching: tales and lore regarding exactly what he had asked of me.
Cutch's face fell from the joy of seeing me again, to a mask of seriousness; he plainly did not know what to expect from me, though I guessed he dreaded my reply. I told him many of the stories I had discovered, especially the tale of Mithrellas. I told him of just how serious, how sorrowful or tragic a union of Elf and Mortal might be. Cutch's face continued on its crestfallen spiral until, with a deep breath, I spoke my mind and heart at last.
"You might desire to spend the rest of your life with me," I said, "but I could never spend the rest of my life with you. That is a simple truth, as true as the lore I have shared. And I shall also share this: you say that were you an Elf-lord, you might ask for my hand. You are not an Elf-lord, yet you asked me just the same, and don't you deny it.
"You tell me you love me, and that is real - as real to you as the heat from the oven, or the delights of your art. And it is real to me as well, indeed to any who see the look of dreams in your eyes. This at last is my answer, Cutch Crane. If you are in love, I say to you, you are not in love alone."
I could not tell if Cutch laughed or cried; for I could not see through the swimming of my own eyes...
Next Entry: Observations on Coming of Age
