Imladris; late summer; dusk.
Mallosson draws his fingers lazily over the parchment as his eyes flit across the words; elegant ink pooling into swirls into shapes into letters that swim in front of his gaze. He can’t make sense of them, not much anyways, and so he tosses the paper onto his desk with a sigh. An invitation to Falathlorn is most of what he could make out of it before the exhaustion rimmed his eyes, bleary with need of sleep and drink. He can take note still of the elegant red sigil at the bottom of the short note, signifying the house to which it belongs. From a Lady Seregrian of Bar-en-Acharn.
Is this what the younger kin do now when they are betrothed? He asks himself as he rises from his desk with a sigh, the plush chair in which he sat creaking as he gets to his feet. Do they send letters of invitation to their marriage home to every world-weary elf they meet? Never mind that she claimed to be of age with me. Soft footsteps echo across the small hall of his chambers as he clears the dark space, lit dimly by candlelight from the desk, to collapse onto the silks of his bed. He hears the gentle rumble of a bottle rolling across the floor, and he struggles to remember if it was wine or ink that once filled the glass jar.
I thought she was to go on a bridal tour regardless, Mallosson recalls, as he curls up, wrapping his arms around his knees the same way a scared or sick child might. He remembers seeing Seregrian in a blur of faces one night in the Hall of Fire, among others--her husband, he was sure, and another elleth named Calanis that he found himself pleased to run into again the next week. I thought she said that was something she was doing, the mortals’ tradition. It’s hard to blame her, seeing as she’s damned herself to her mortal husband’s side.
He flinches at his own bitter thoughts, more rancid on his tongue than the wine. It was wine, he now remembers, in the bottle. He can’t make out where it may have rolled to in the dark, so he hopes it rolled somewhere far away where he never has to see it again. Mallosson can’t remember why he even bothered leaving his chambers in the first place to return to gathering in the Hall of Fire; for what, companionship? Friendship? To drink in a different place for once? To hide from the healers in Tham Send who so eagerly seek my thoughts on this herbal treatment, or this bandaging method, or some other dull question that would be better asked of an elf who could treat another with confidence?
He plucks the silken sheets up and pulls them over himself, wrapping himself in warmth as he stares listlessly ahead to his chamber doors. He’s done this so many times for so many nights that he doesn’t have to be able to see them clearly, through darkness and vision swimming, to know the shapes that twist and carve themselves into place. Flowers blooming on vines creeping like snakes slithering like shadows that guard him from the rest of the world. Are they keeping something out or are they keeping me in, these damned doors?
It was an easy question to answer, but not one he feels ready to answer quite yet, in the darkness, alone. Above the empty hearth next to his bed he can feel the stare of steel glaring down at him, as if his own once-weapon could be ashamed of the coward and the cretin that he has turned out to become. My brother would not have abandoned his position as a healer, were he one. My sister would not lock herself away in her tower out of shame, should she have borne any.
In the silence and the darkness as the candle flickers out from a wayward breeze, from a draft and a window he does not remember leaving open, Mallosson eventually succumbs to the stillness of sleep. When he awakes, he returns to his desk once more, pushing aside the letter to pick up a fresh piece of parchment for his own; the stack is still nearly untouched, even moons later. The first piece he must discard for having dripped blotches of ink on it in his nervousness, but the second time he does not hesitate as greatly.
In reply to Seregrian, Lady of Bar-en-Acharn: may you find happiness in your time of being newly wedded, and the many years to be shared thereafter.
I am flattered by your invitation! Many years has it been since a bird soaring through the Valley bears a message intended for me, and many years more has it been since it was an invitation of fellowship, and not a farewell from those leaving to go to the westward shores. By your generosity, Lady, merely name a date and I shall begin packing my things to head to Falathlorn; I do miss the fair graces of Lindon and Ered Luin.
I shall send this message off with your wise eagle, and hope to find him some token of sustenance while he rests in my window for a time.
May the stars shine upon the hour of our meeting; I shall look forward to getting to know more of you and your husband.
