Imladris; late summer; night
“You hold onto that clasp like it is a promise,” she says, gesturing to the rusted silver brooch in his hands.
“Is it not?” Mallosson asks, turning it over in his fingers with the skill of one intimately familiar with every curve of the cloak clasp. “A promise, that is. I thought that I could learn to unlove. That affection could, like a promise, be broken. That, like a gift, could be returned to the original bearer. That I could reach down into time like a river and give it back thousands of years ago. ‘No, thank you. This love is not for me. It is too heavy.’ But that would be rude.”
Alphaear laughs as she falls into the chair across from him, a long table laden with herbs and scrolls bridging the gap between. “How do you manage to make a jest out of misery? Every time; you are so droll in your manner, Mallosson, no one can take you seriously.”
“That is how I prefer it,” the ex-healer murmurs as he unfurls one of the scrolls on the table. His dark eyes dance from word to word, and he is thankful this time to find that the lettering does not swim in his gaze as it had done the last time he had sat down to address matters. He shoots a furtive glance in the direction of the elleth, as though he is surprised to see her still sitting there, her hands still folded in her lap, her lips still tight across her face. “Is there something you still need from me, hiril?”
“I still have yet to tell you what I came here for in the first place,” the strategist chuckles, leaning forward to lace her fingers together and rest her chin atop them. “Are you so quick to be rid of me, Mallosson?” The elleth’s eyes dance with mirth and mischief.
He leans back in his seat, putting the cloak clasp back into its rightful place--tucked deep in a drawer at his desk, buried beneath piles of papers scrawled upon in elvish lettering. “So what is it that you need from me, Alphaear? If you have come to ask me to leave my retirement, then you have come to be sorely disappointed.” He shuts the drawer harshly. “It is not happening. I made it extremely clear years ago that I would no longer be a healer in Tham Send--nor elsewhere.”
“I did not come to ask you that,” Alphaear confesses, but her lips twitch upward into a smirk. “Though, I have foreseen that something will call you out of your idleness, and soon, and it will be something inevitable. You cannot hide away from the world forever, Mallosson--it reaches out to you, and when it finally grabs you, it will not let go.”
“Save your prophecies for someone who will indulge them,” Mallosson sighs. “If what you say shall come to pass, then you may gloat in secret, for my face you will not see again if I am dragged from this place.” He begins to portion out the herbs on the table--athelas, fragrant; half of the bundles dried and the other fresh. The gentle scent that reaches his nose brings to mind fair Ithilien and the sweet wildflower honey dripping from colorful blossoms.
“If that is what you believe,” she murmurs. “No, Mallosson, I came here to ask a different favor from you. One that I think you shall protest just as greatly to, yes, but I am not asking you to wile away your days mending wounds and drowning yourself in the ailments of others.” When Alphaear is only met by the healer’s glare from behind the bundles of herbs, she continues.
“So say your piece and quickly--you have taken up much of my time by causing my thoughts to stray to times before,” he barks, though a glimmer of remorse dancing across his face at how harshly he speaks. She herself does not seem bothered.
“Your sword,” Alphaear says, pointing up to the silver blade hanging above the hearth. Mallosson follows the direction of her finger and frowns as he takes sight of it. He glances at her, silently urging her to continue. “It is of Westernesse make, is it not? I wish to take it and study it.”
“No. Absolutely not,” Mallosson sighs, putting the herbs firmly down on the table. “It is priceless. I will not risk any damage coming to it. I know what you mean by ‘study’; you intend to use it, either in practice or in active battle. I will not part with it.”
“Then you will come with it,” she says firmly, sitting up straight in the chair. “If you will not be a healer, then you must come to aid as a warrior. You were a scout once, a leader among them; a spymaster, almost. If you would only just come eastwards with me, just to the Rhovanion--”
“I said no, Alphaear. I will never go East, not until fair Ithilien is restored, and even then I will be dragged out by my greaters, of which there will be none for they all will have sailed! I am happy here in Imladris--no threat, no death, no war, no adventure will drag me out of this Valley!”
“So you will waste here, a coward and a fool?!” She demands. “You have a sword hung above your hearth and herbs to heal a thousand,” the elleth snaps as she gestures to the table, “but you will let yourself waste and fade away to nothing because you are too stricken by your own fear to move!”
“Please leave,” he begs of her. “Leave! I have business to attend to and herbs to sort and deliver. I shall not sit here and be shouted at in my own home! I shall not have demands made of me--when and if I choose to leave, it shall be on my own terms, and not the terms of one who claims to be my friend but would just as soon steal my sword from my corpse!”
“Damn you!” Alphaear snaps in return, slipping away to the doorway of the room. “I hope Lady Manadhlaer appreciates her athelas, for I am sure it will be the last favor you ever deem bearable enough to do for her!”
Alphaear slammed the door behind her, the raucous echoing in the empty chamber leaving Mallosson in a wince, hunched over, as he continued to sort the herbs in silence.
