Mortals: A Case Study (Passages on Passage)
The Forsaken Inn, The Lone Lands, on the Breeland Frontier
14 Hrívë in the Reckoning of Imladris (annotated with notes from Torech Besruth and Bree-town)
It is now fully a fortnight and longer since the last serious entry in this study, and I deem this lapse of chronicling unforgivable on my part; the devolution of this academic study into an adolescent journal is an unpardonable breach of my discipline. However, since the lapse can be neither explained away nor brought with forbearance, I must simply annotate the narrative to the best of recollection and collation of the notes I have managed to create in the intervening days, and press onward.
It was the first day of Hrívë. a fortnight ago now. that The Lair and our associated friends hosted what we called Mereth Hannad, a Feast of Thanks. Like the Grand Opening before, the event was well-attended, with an outpouring of food and fellowship; music and song and lively dance; and with new friendships and acquaintances struck up. Even when the weather turned against us and the rains drove us indoors, the revels and fellowship proceeded unabated.
During this event, Cutch and Lancogard rose to the challenge of preparing and delivering an abundant feast for the entire assembly. And full credit must go to the good-natured humor of this House as well. Lancogard, upon getting caught out in the sudden rain, burst into the hall loudly lamenting the fact that his wonderful attire, dyed a vivid blue, had been soiled by the rains with the dye dripping all over him, staining his feet a shade of Ered Luin Blue! Good-natured hilarity rang through the hall, with little Lancogard taking no ill will or embarrassment. Cutch, of course, whispered an aside to me about our own misadventures along this line...
Days later, after the enthusiasm of the feast lowered to a simmer, and several new friends joined the House. Cutch and I were relaxing in the Grand Hall, lounging by hearthside as is our habit now. I had mentioned to him in an offhand manner of an upcoming event of no small note: the Grand Elven Ball was to be held in Imaldris, and tidings had gone out through all ways bidding all Elves to attend.
Cutch immediately expressed his reservations and concerns, as predictable as could be. He truly felt unready, even slightly unworthy, of appearing at any Elvish function or social gathering; he also voiced his worry that my attending with a Mortal in tow, regardless of our relationship, would be a massive breach of social convention, and potentially damaging to my reputation. I, of course, vowed that any objection to my bespoken Mortal by anyone would be met with the most imperious disdain I could muster. Cutch laughed nervously at that, knowing that I had a centuries-old word-hoard to draw upon for creating the most colorful invectives imaginable
In the end, Cutch acquiesced to my insistence, and we hurriedly packed for a long journey to the Hidden Valley. If my calculations proved correct, we would be setting out from Torech Besruth and arriving at Imladris with a day to spare - a close cutting, certainly, not taking into account weather or less savory obstacles along our way. I lay the blame on my own procrastination: yet another developing problem I am noticing.
We departed within an hour of being ready, the day already passing from morning to noon. Our first day's ride saw us crossing the borders of the Shire, passing through the western bogs and making our way across the orderly lands of the Halflings until we came across the small village of Dunfurlong, just south of Waymeet. Here, to both our relief, we were offered lodging courtesy of Lancogard, who delighted in company with a warm and dry hobbit-hole and a quite filling repast.
The next two days brought us to the gates of Bree, turning south along the Greenway to skirt the town walls and appear at Southgate. Our talk along the ride was lively and instructive for both of us, Cutch sharing his local knowledge of the present inhabitants, and me recounting the histories of the realms of yore. After finding no lodging until approaching the Prancing Pony, we were treated to a lively evening of dance and song and chance-meetings - which I found myself swept up in the spirit of the company and the evening. The mixed company of both Elves and Men brought to light for me how comfortable I was now becoming among Mortals - even as I write the words, I still wrestle with the ideas that have changed me so in these last few months.
The next day we rode out with the dawn, hoping to put more leagues behind us. We passed through the Bree-land, seeing and recognizing old sights and locales we had seen during our time with the merchant company. Reminiscing over such things brought an odd flutter to both of us: how far we had come from those first days of tentative talk and encounters.
At last, the feeble lights of the Forsaken Inn appeared before us in the gloaming, and after stabling our mounts we settled in at the sparsely populated hostel, with many eyes and voices noticing us with high interest and curiosity, but also giving us a balance to leeway and privacy. As we retired to our rented room, Cutch curled up on the bed facing the door (protective, dear one) whilst I took the bed furthest in by the small hearth. As I write by the feeble firelight and a single candle, I am struck at how we are now, as a couple, on an adventure uniquely our own, both across the lands and across the divide that separates our kin and folk. Our immediate destination is Imladris - but our final destination?
The moving finger writes...
Next Entry: On Misconceptions
