This story takes place the same evening as the trilogy "A Letter in the Library" took place.
The distant hearth at the end of the Hall floods the long room with warmth and light. The roar of the fires and crackling flames thereof are drowned out by the quiet chatter of the company that gathers within the hall this night. Though many are gathered near the flames, as the autumn chill has finally set in over the Valley of Imladris, there is a pair sat aside at the table closer to the door, beneath the twin staircases and just out of reach of the warmth. Deep in conversation are they, as they have been for some time.
“Musicality was not something I was ever so talented in,” Arrvelas says, reaching a hand out towards Alphaear as though expecting her to either take it or hand something over. “Though I have found I can play if I wish, it was always his talent, not mine. After I lost my sight, there was little I could do save to teach myself how to play and relearn how to fight.” A moment’s pause sits between them. “This flute was his.”
Alphaear’s handling of the instrument becomes suddenly gentle, and her eyes widen at the revelation. Quickly does the place the flute back into the hand of the other. She does not pull back until he is certain that he has a hold on it, and then promptly folds her hands in her lap. “Perhaps you can play for me,” she says, a mild tremor in her voice as her eyes linger on the instrument. “Another time, however, the Hall seems noisy tonight. May I ask you a question?” She does not even pause to catch her breath as she shifts the topic.
With a sigh, Arrvelas pushes himself upwards in his seat so that he may appear attentive to the conversation. He settles the flute in his lap, though a protective hand remains atop it so that it does not fall to the ground. Feigning his annoyance, he says, “I suppose. What is it that you wish to ask of me?”
“When last we spoke,” Alphaear begins, as though their last conversation was not held earlier that morning in the library where she had knocked over a stack of books and agreed to join him on this foolish journey of his, “it seems as though you rebuked my interest in the study of war. Yet but just now you have claimed to have spent your time retraining yourself in the ways of the blade after losing your sight.” Although her words are posed to the other as a statement, the question itself lies in the implication that drips from them. She reaches out to the table, collecting her wine-glass that she may take a sip of it while he answers her.
Arrvelas straightens up even further in his chair, taken aback at the sudden bluntness that the elleth shows to him. He takes the moments of silence while she sips her wine to think before he offers his reply. “I… did say so. When I was a child, I had wished to be a warrior. I suppose that I can’t anymore,” he sighs, “nor do I want to. Yet, I find it a comfort to still indulge myself in training in something that I once excelled in.” He almost stops there, yet after a pause, continues. “I am blind and I cannot protect others, but at the least I might be able to protect myself.”
“I do not think there is anything wrong with that, hir,” Alphaear says after a few moments of letting the words sit between them, heady in the air like smoke. “With protecting oneself, and having that desire. There is nothing wrong with a blade in ones’ hands if circumstances call for it. And if you are as old as I recall, I’d trust your hands with a sword more than many others.”
If he could roll his eyes, he certainly would. “You would trust my blind eyes and misguided hands more than the warriors who truly get to see battle? Why?”
“Why not?” The elleth counters quickly. “I was trusted by soldiers to mark out their path and their maneuvers…yet rarely did I see battle, at least in my early days of such. I assume the same sentiment would apply here.”
“Ah, yes,” Arrvelas sighs, suddenly recalling the life of the one before him before she spent her time wiling away in the depths of Elrond’s library. “A renowned strategist. Well, I suppose if you were there to tell me where to move and where to strike, it might make things easier. Think you that we will find trouble on the road towards Bree?”
The elleth flushes at his words — even though she is unsure if the term “renowned strategist” is meant to refer to her or the profession as a whole, and even being unsure of the genuine intent of the words. Nonetheless, should anyone question the color on her cheeks, she would give blame to the wine that she so rarely indulges in. “It is possible. Finding danger, to be precise. I have heard tell of threats of orcs as one travels westwards, out of the Trollshaws.”
“Well, then we shall certainly be fine!” Arrvelas exclaims, allowing a smile to briefly grace his lips. “I think we can handle a few orcs, no? And to come across danger on the road, that would be far more exciting than whatever research you hole yourself up to do.” He slouches back down in his seat, still grinning at her.
“I will be bringing a few books with me, I shall have you know!” Alphaear scoffs, offense clearly seeping through her tone. “What research I have been doing may very well be what saves your life should danger come to pass as I predict! Besides, I can hardly afford to be falling behind,” she finishes in a low murmur, taking a hearty sip of her wine. Her nose wrinkles at the bitter taste.
“I will add,” the elleth continues, moving the glass away from her lips, “that for whatever danger we face going west, I am quite heartened to know that we will not be going east, for I fear greatly the danger that lies on those paths.”
Arrvelas raises his head at her words, his attention returning solely to focus upon her. “East? What is so horrible that lies in wait to the east of us?”
She cannot help but scoff in surprise, raising an eyebrow at the perceived ignorance of the ellon sat across from her. “Surely you jest. Can you truly not know of what I speak? The great Shadow that has stirred?” As she speaks, Arrvelas waves his hand dismissively and settles back in his chair. With a grumble and a scoff, he says,
“Ah, that! Yes, I know of that. I had just a fleeting hope that you were speaking of something of more interest than the Shadow. That great shadow has been stirring for Ages. That is nothing new.”
Laughter of disbelief falls from her mouth. “And— and what would have proven to be of more interest for me to say, hir?!”
Arrvelas shrugs readily at that. “Ai… perhaps the Valar have raised Beleriand back from the depths of the ocean and that they now wish to see the elves fight over their lands again, but this time while they are all…” he fishes for a concept, “drunk? I do not know.”
A pause.
“That would still be to the west,” Alphaear points out.
Arrvelas curses and waves his hand at her again. “West! East! They are all the same to me,” he chuckles. As he settles once more, Alphaear mimics the behavior and leans back into her own chair. She muses over his words and what she thinks of him, swirling her wine around in its glass.
“You,” she says, finally, “are unlike me.”
“Is that so?” Arrvelas hums in reply. “And what are you like, hiril?”
“…I am… unlike you,” is the answer she settles on, though it is clear by her pursed lips and furrowed brows that she does not seem all too happy with the answer that she has given to him. Her answer elicits a sigh from the other.
“Eloquent as always! If you claim such by reason that I speak the truth — or at least what I believe to be the truth — and I care not to concern myself with trivial matters, then you might be correct. Or perhaps you claim such by reason that I cannot see, and yet you still can, in which case you are also in the right. At least one of these things would make me unlike you,” he sighs, raising his hand to brush invisible dust off of his dark robes. “Now, it is my turn to ask you something. Of what wars have you partaken in? What battles have you seen that have made you into such a tactician?”
Alphaear’s tone suddenly falls soft, and quiet. “I was… a child when the War of Wrath reached its conclusion,” she begins. She is quick to clear her throat, however, and speak up so that the ellon can hear her. “I reached the height of my renown and respect as a tactician in the Last Alliance. After Eregion.”
Arrvelas lets out a hum of acknowledgment. “Ah, after Eregion. And before that?” He inquires, leaning forward in his chair.
“And what about you?” Alphaear asks quickly. “What were you up to before Eregion, and after the razing of Sirion?” Her quick questioning only elicits laughter from Arrvelas.
“Hiril,” he says, “you should answer the question first before asking me the same. It is only fair.”
“Well, there is little of interest to speak of then,” she says in a biting tone, shaking her head at his insistence on an answer. “I was unimportant before Eregion, as well as during. The unwanted daughter of a once-general. That is hardly a tale worth retelling.”
A silence sits between them. Many of the other patrons who were indulging in the warmth of the fire and the wine earlier in the evening were now gone, and a scarce few remain. The roar of the distant hearth can now be heard in full, drowning out whatever words would be the right ones to propel the conversation any further. Arrvelas clears his throat, lightening his tone.
“Your books, hiril!” He exclaims in such a booming voice that it jars Alphaear out of her thoughts, and she sits up straight in her chair. “Do they move and wither and die?” He questions. The bizarre ask only causes her to further widen her eyes.
“No? No, they do not! But why do you ask of me such a thing?” Her cadence is uncertain and worried, unsure of the intent of the other.
“Then you have no reason to deny me the chance to come and sit in my presence more often,” Arrvelas jests with an easy grin. “The books will always be there, but maybe not I.” He is quick to change his grin to a pout, to further drive home the easy joke, although it looks more like a frown with the cloth covering his eyes.
The sudden shift in tone and topic causes Alphaear no other response but bewilderment and surprise, and she has no choice but to go along with it. “Do… do you enjoy my company that much, hir?”
Arrvelas, in return, offers only a chuckle and a simple shrug as he continues the jesting tone. “Now, let us not get ahead of ourselves in this…”
“But you were the one who just said as much!” Alphaear protests, easily falling into his taunts and jests - she would blame it on the wine if she had the forethought to blame it on anything at all. “In fact, you practically begged it of me!”
“Hm, yes, and have you any proof of that?” He counters, an eyebrow raising up above the fabric of the cloth wrapped around his eyes. The response only causes the elleth’s jaw to drop in sheer shock.
“But you…” Alphaear begins to protest gently. “But you just said it…” she trails off in a grumble. Grabbing her wine-glass once more, she takes a sip of the bitter wine and leans back in her chair. She chooses instead to listen to the rambling drunkards nearby rather than continue with whatever games Arrvelas is trying to play.
Arrvelas smiles, thinking that he has won whatever silly argument that they were supposedly having. He slips back into his slouched position, and as the night wanes on and the wine trickles down to little, and the drunkards eventually leaves, there he remains; sleeping, whether Alphaear was still speaking to him or not.
