In the comfortable suite of rooms, the emptiness was palpable. Galdorion’s possessions, sketches, and tools for both sculpting and haircare were scattered across the place – although Rainith had clearly made an effort to tidy them, as most of the things could be found piled neatly together in small groups. Of the rooms’ mistress, there was no sign – only a bunch of fresh-picked flowers in a vase showed that she had been there in days. Maltariel crossed the room slowly to bend over the vase, rearranging the hastily-deposited flowers into a more formal style. If she looked carefully, she could see other signs that Rainith had visited, however briefly – the shutters had been flung open, so that the autumn wind had blown a stack of papers across the desk, and a few blades of wet grass lingered on the rich carpets.
Maltariel’s own possessions remained piled neatly in the main room – at first her stay had been intended only to be brief, lasting only as long as the pair were occupied elsewhere, but Galdorion had remained shut up in his workshop, refusing to leave it even to eat or sleep lest the inspiration vanish, and Rainith had taken to wandering the valley restlessly as if haunted by his absence – unable to settle, alone in the rooms they shared. Occasionally the pair of them would meet – when Rainith returned to change, or Maltariel came seeking peace and quiet from the usual gatherings and gossip of the valley. Then they would curl up by the fire together, sharing mulled wine and news with one another until one or other of them would leave to pursue their business. It was their last such meeting that had left Maltariel so thoughtful that morning. Rainith had told her more about their gathering in the Hall of Fire – talking quietly of a hunter who still carried regrets borne of his escape from Gondolin, and the troubled temper of her companion Estarfin. She was glad to hear that Rainith had found a new group of friends to keep her company – since her departure from her old House and family the warden had a sense that Rainith had been lonely – feeling herself set against the world and all those around her. This morning, however, it was the tale of the solemn Belegos that lingered in her mind. Almost against her will, she found herself reminded of memories that she had thought long set aside – of a festival interrupted, and a city destroyed. She had not been so surrounded with memories of her past and her city at any point since she'd begun a new life in the Golden Wood, and while she welcomed the sense of connection it brought her, she could not deny the bitter-sweet nature of the resurgence of old sorrows.
The warden was still lost in thought when the knock at the door came, and it was only on its repetition that she looked up in surprise, recognising the sound. The knock was hard, peremptory, and Maltariel hastened to answer it, braiding her golden hair tidily at the same time as she hurried to the summons. On opening the door, however, she was left no wiser. The elf at the door was not one she recognised – a hard-looking, dark-haired warrior with a serious expression, one whom she instinctively recognised as her own equal in age, if not older than her. She was about to ask for his name when she recognised the sword he carried, and exclaimed easily,
“Oh, you must be Estarfin! Rainith told me you were mending that.” She gestured to the sword, holding the door wide open in a gesture of welcome, a warm smile lighting her expression. “Do you want to come in and wait?” She continued, glancing behind him as if expecting to see her young friend following. “Rainith is... elsewhere at the moment. Really, though, you might have more luck hunting her down. I am not sure when she will be back.”
