You = a non-Silvan lucky enough to share a campfire with Saelindril for the night.
"Have you any other family?" you ask.
Saelindril glances into your eyes with surprise, as though you had asked her some deeply personal question.
"I... What is it you wish to know?” she asks “I am Saelindril, an elf of Eryn Galen the Greenwood; that which you outsiders know as the Mirkwood. I seek my brother, Fehael. What else do you need to know?” Her shoulders are tense, though whether it is with the dangerous energy of a lynx waiting to pounce, or the fear of a deer preparing to flee, you cannot tell.
You hold up your hands appeasingly. “I mean no offense,” you say soothingly. “But if we are to share a fire for the night, I thought perhaps we could get to know one another better. How else can I be certain you won’t murder me in my sleep and take my valuables?” She doesn’t react, so you offer a teasing smile. “How can you know that I won’t do such a thing to you?”
The green-clad elf-woman crosses her arms and watches you from across the fire, unamused. “I have no valuables.”
You’re not sure what to say to that, and it must show on your face, for the elf-woman seems to take pity.
“Very well,” she sighs, “I shall tell you a bit of myself. And then you shall do the same,” her tone brooks no argument.
You laugh. “Of course,” you say with a smile. “I would never dream of doing otherwise.”
“Indeed,” she says firmly, pulling her cloak around her. It makes her blend into the fallen tree trunk upon which she sits. “So, what was it you asked? If I had any family other than my brother? I do. Do you?”
You decide to push your luck and waggle a finger at her mischievously. “Uh-uh-uuh! That is hardly an answer, and I asked first.”
She looks between your eyes, your waggling finger, and your intentionally foolish grin, and you could swear you catch the barest glimmer of a laugh in her oak green eyes. Then, suddenly, she gives you a quiet smile, and you decide that it is a friendly one, if cautious.
“Oh, very well. Ask first, indeed, you did. I do, in fact, have many kin in Eryn Galen. We live in the western reaches of the wood…”
She goes on to tell you of her father, Saelfaron, a hunter like herself; her mother, Torheriel, an elf-woman skilled with plants and herbs and healing; her sister, Saelveren, a joyous soul who dances as prettily as she wields her twin blades. She tells you, too, that she has a son for whom she constantly fears, for the child always throws himself in danger’s way to protect those around him.
“Hardly a child any longer,” she corrects herself, smiling, “and at least he carries a shield but,” her smile fades “what good is a thin sheet of steel or wood against all of the evil that bleeds into our fair woods from Dol Guldur?”
There are other children – her own, her sister’s, her cousins – but she does not share their names and speaks not of any individual for overly long. You gather that none of these children are truly children any longer, and you notice that she doesn’t mention her brother’s wife or offspring, if he has them. You ask her about it, and she sighs.
“He has none,” she says quietly. She does not elaborate.
You try to smooth over the break in conversation. “Tell me about yourself, then,” you suggest.
She looks up at you with surprise again, but this time there is a trace of bemusement as well. “I just did,” she smiles, “my family is a part of me.”
You think about that as the two of you lapse into silence.
“You did not ask me to speak of myself,” you realize.
“I did not,” she confirms.
“Why?” You ask.
“The nature of your questions has already told me that which I needed to know,” she answers.
You feel yourself deflate a little… Are you that uninteresting?
“If you have more that you would share, I would hear it with pleasure,” she continues, “but I do not wish to force it from you. And this quiet still of night is soothing, is it not?”
You smile, relieved. “Yes. Yes, it is,” you agree.
She nods with decision, as though you've just agreed on something of great import, and pulls her cloak closer around her, gazing into the crackling fire. You follow suit, and find that you no longer mind the silence quite so much.
