The rain comes whispering, rising from the quiet of a still, cloudy day. I step off the porch, feeling the water gathering in the wet grass, running into my hair and over my face. The letter in my hand grows sodden, words running into trails of ink. The thirsty ground beneath my feet drinks deep in rain, welcoming the interlude. I move to my old, familiar, spot, standing above the waterfall, feeling the water slanting through the air, hearing it surround me. A childish gesture sends the piece of paper carelessly into the torrent beneath me, spinning out of sight in moments. A part of me feels the slick stone beneath my feet and the ache in my shoulder and calls fear awake, but it is small, easily quelled. I stand still, eyes closed, feeling the weather break, out here on the edge, above the valley.
In the sound of the rain, drowning out all other sound, I remember another rain storm, another's words, swearing promises of darkness to come. If ever it were to come, it is here now, and blinded by our loss, I blunder about, hoping only to hold to the vows of service I made. There is a part of me that wonders why I stay – the reasons I came to call this House mine no longer bind me. Lord Vorongwe would free me in an instant if I chose to leave, to return to the family I have not seen in so long. Yet still, I stay, and even try and find some sort of role within this House, whose lords speak a language I cannot, whose warriors take paths I will not.
It has crept up on me, this feeling that this is where I belong. Somehow, I have built a life for myself here – found friends, allies. Even Daegond, who I once hated so bitterly, I now fear for and miss. I find myself wishing for his blunt advice. Ever since I have become a Caun, there are few who know or remember the paths I have taken to come to this place, and even fewer who can recognise my inability to fill it. I open my eyes, slowly, to gaze down into the torrent of rushing water – but there is of course no sign of the abandoned note. Another task I cannot deal with – all I had hoped was to put some of my new skills and sense of purpose to the service of the House. I owed Him that much, at least, for what he had done for me in the past. Instead I find myself trying to shelter my friends, bind together elves who would rather tear apart in their grief and despair, force kindness out of spite and selfish disregard. I know that Lord Kalluin is right – we cannot simply abandon one another and go riding off in some glorious rescue mission – but I fear that if I had been able to, I would have followed Lord Veryacano. Simpler to take sword in hand and ride with those I love, to fight against evil and dream of triumph, than to stay here, in this place that has been both home and prison, and try and establish something for him to come home to.
“I fear that you may do evil without knowing it,” he said, and I wish I could ask him, now, how I could possibly avoid it. I move to help, and Parnard turns away, hurt and disappointed. I try to advise, and Talkale runs behind my back, carrying poison with him. I have friends here, it is true, but my heart has gone with those who ride, and every day it feels a little less worth struggling here. Harder to be patient and wait for healing, to face the grief in my kinsmen's eyes. I am wearied with pain and grief, and yet, like all of us, I try and mimic strength and wisdom. I am not sure how I could do it less convincingly.
The rain slows, becomes the last drops of a sudden shower. The sun shines from behind the clouds, turning the sky to white and silver. The birds recover from their dismay and begin calling to one another in the trees. I stand still, feeling the strength in the stone beneath my feet, listening to the power in the unending rush of the river. I cannot bury my doubts, but I can let them be the sudden shower of rain – a deluge at first, but they end, and I am still here. I take a deep breath of the fresh air, then step back, away from the edge. We can do only what we can do – I cannot ride, cannot fight, perhaps cannot even answer a spiteful letter, but Parnard, my friend, is hurting, and perhaps I can reach him. At the very least, I can try.
