There’s a great quietness in the vacant Halls. At the fireplace, the wood is slowly reduced to naught but ashes, and every so often there is a sudden sparkling noise as embers gets released into the hazy air. From above, the ceiling creaks as the wind picks up the pace, and the drops of rain grow plentiful as they hit the painted glass windows; all in a tireless pursuit of working together and becoming something stronger – a heavy storm, or worse. For autumn has started to lay down her colourful blankets upon the world, and in its wake the rain, wind and mist follows blindly as the temperatures starts to sneak down, lower and lower for each night that walks slowly by. It seems like an eternity since last there was joyful company and kin who would feast in these halls, and yet it has only been a few months since the last time elven feet moved over the floors. Time, in truth, moves slowly in solitude.
There are the gardeners and other staff, of course – and I do recall many evenings we spent together, contemplating life’s mysteries and gossiped about our absent friends and acquaintances, all in good jest and humour. But there is that ever-present feeling that I am not one of them, how much I’d even like to. They still treat me as one above, as one of the Lords and Ladies of the House, no matter how many times I tell them that I am not a Warden any longer, and that I laid down my sword in favour of a quiet and peaceful life. In all honesty, I do not miss the times with swords clashing, shields bashing and heavy helmets obscuring the view, nor do I miss the stressful and tedious training that came along with it, or the lengthy patrols that kept one away for days, weeks or months. I do not miss the dry rations in the field, the heavy backpacks or the fletching of arrows, nor the muddy boots or repairing a wrecked garment.
I only miss one thing – the people. The ones beneath the armour, the ones who held the swords and spears, the ones who would, on a given command, move into a protective formation to keep each other safe. The people who would take off their helmets after a long drill or battle, to let their sweaty, tangled hair out and feel the wind upon their skin again, and the sound of shields dropped to the ground and the cries of joy as arms were held up high in triumph. I miss the people who would share their own, meagre rations and almost empty water flasks to the ones who needed it more, to aid the injured and the bruised. I remember us drinking wine and laughing, sharing old memories and experiences, and I remember us dancing together to the music provided by skilled artists, and I remember the singing where even the birds would stay to listen. And I remember all the times we spent together, camping on hilltops or hidden in caverns and crevices, and all the long talks of all and nothing, and the tender moments where tired heads would rest upon another’s shoulder, and gentle arms holding each other close when the nights were at their coldest, and the frozen hands who would meet around the fire, and how stale fingers would interlock to form a close bond to the other, and the glittering, expressive eyes finding each other and shining like diamonds in the sky. I miss their beauty, their voices, their own individual sounds and quirks, and some I do miss more then others, and yet all of them have a special place in my heart, and they will never leave, no matter how far away any of them may be. I feel all the love we shared, as brothers and sisters and comrades, a family in its own right.
And then my eyes fall upon the large tables across the room, where they all would gather before a mission, or to have a glass of wine and delight in each other’s company; and all I see are empty chairs and empty tables, and all I hear is the sound of a sparkling fire, the creaking of wood and the wind and rain against the painted windows.
