Seaver languished within the confines of his richly adorned abode, fingers gripping tightly a bottle of rum. A familiar prop, ever at his side following the days in which he left his fiancé Erinwyn. He tipped his head back to drink of it. His mind clouded with it's potency. Yet no matter how much he would seem to consume it would never seem to ease his pain, only numb it for a time.
It would suffice, he thought. Feeling nothing. He had closed his eyes enough times and attempted to meditate to see if it could relieve him of his anguish as Calilla instructed him, but it was no use. Indeed, he contemplated her words, spoken as ever in her way. Plain, broken Westron. He had asked of her how he could be rid of these feelings that plagued his heart. How could she remain, so cold? He wondered, Talvor his kinsman had broken hers. Having somehow managed to worm his way within, a feat he had thought impossible. A feat he had never attempted. Yet within the week it seems she was her old self. If only he could be more like Calilla Yishai. He did not doubt that she had suffered and no woman should suffer such enslavement, the consequences of it had undoubtedly moulded her into the remorseless assassin she had become. And yet, despite this he envied her inability to feel emotion for the most part. Surely it would be easier? He would not feel joy either, he would not feel true happiness. But when was he truly last content? His life had been mired with tragedies ever since his early years in Rohan. Feeling nothing would be neither joy or pain. Nothing would simply be nothing. He would be the cool, rational beast he knows himself that he can be when not weighed down by sentimentality.
He sighed, setting his rum aside. The leatherbound journal he oft confided within his innermost thoughts sitting upon the side table. He lifted it from the surface and opened it. Idly, he turns to the first page. His piercing blue eyes glossing over the contents. The inkwell beside his book though his quill would remain within it. Since he had cast his old book into the flames and began anew a year and a half had passed. Since he raised a mug to new beginnings. He had fell for Cirywen too quickly, and too hard. She had stolen his secrets from him. Read what she should have not. He lost control. They were ill suited, the self-destructive teenager had shattered his will to go on for a time. He looked through the pages, one by one. Skimming them as he would, on the last page he would flip it shut onto the table. From Cirywen to everything that had transpired since. New beginnings having not turned out so well after all in any sense of the word, how has it come to this? Even his childhood friendship ruined. Within the darkness he then let his eyelids fall shut once again, trying to kill it all once more. To determinedly bury his anguish. The Variag's meditation would work, he would clear his mind of any and all emotion both good, and bad. He would not give voice to it by scrawling his thoughts within this dark and disjointed tome. Littered with doubts and fears and guilt. All of it written for the most part by dimly lit candlelight.
Why, on a night such as this for example. The flickering flame the only source of illumination in the shadow. He would sit there for what seemed like the passing of all ages to him. First, second, and third. Within his mind's eye he tried to picture it all, he would kill it all. I will extinguish this flame. He thought. I will. I will. I'm going to do this. She will haunt my thoughts no further. I will not feel this pain. The young Eorling spoke his inner monologue within with a stubbornness and a conviction he did not feel within his heart. Oh gods, he thought. Calilla is right. I am a fool. His meditation not going to plan.
No doubt whomever it was then saw the flickering light within the window for what seemed like a hammer seemed to rap the door. The flaxen haired young man jumped upwards, startled. His heart racing momentarily. Could it be the Watch, had Aanya, the nursemaid of Neyaa's son reported what she'd heard so soon? He crept toward the mantlepiece near his hearth. Above which, was mounted his sword and the Seax, a weapon common in his homelands among Rohirrim, whether used for utilitarian purpose or war. He gripped the Seax by it's tang, a long knife in truth. A deadly weapon by any accounts, it's sharp wedge shape given it armour-piercing strength. Needle-point lethal.
Slowly he moved across the richly marbled flooring, Nearly jumping out of his skin as there would again be a hammering of the door. His heart seizing within his chest. "Who is it?" He asks. Somehow managing calmness of voice. He braces himself for the reply, fingers poised on the tang of the blade so well-suited to dealing death in close quarters, particularly when packed so tightly in a shield wall. A tactic commonly employed by warriors of his kin when they are either forced to fight on foot or in tandem with the cavalry for which the Rohirrim are so famed. He takes a deep breath. He will either kill or be killed this night.
Whomever it would be on the other side of that door. No matter what forces had been mustered to seize him since he had accidentally made mention of his crimes within Neyaa's home. He stood ready to confront his fate and to shed blood. Lest it be Neyaa herself, or she would be among them. He tensed as he prepared to meet his maker. He'd already decided he would not run.
And then a deep voice spoke in the darkness through the wood panel of the door. "'S only me, sir." He expelled the tension within his breast as he breathed outwards. Of course, he thought. It was only the guardsman on night duty. Posted to watch his door. He suddenly felt sheepish for being startled so. And he replied swiftly thereafter. "What is it?." He would ask, the man responding in his gruff Bree-land tones, sounding apologetic. "Sorry sir, if I've disturbed yer, figured yer were still awake. Only err, I've been asked to give yer a letter, might be one o' yer admirers left it? I'm really sorry sir. It could o' waited." Seaver made no response for a moment, the man standing deadly still. He feels the thumping within his chest resume. Oh gods. "Sir?." In the long silence that ensues the short yet stocky Bree-lander lingers on his doorstep, after a moment he slides the envelope beneath his door before returning to his post and the blond man simply stares at it. After a moment stooping to pick it up. He crosses back over to the bench where he sat so long before in failed meditation, the flickering candle giving light to a familiar scrawl. Handwriting he had seen before. It could only belong to one person, Seaver, written upon it.
The house remained quiet as it had before, he reached for his rum to drain a goodly portion of it and he wluld have returned his blade to it's sheath. Echoes in his mind of the words he'd exchanged with the Variag in her quarters. When he had visited her at the shop she kept in Eastglen.
Where has love gotten me before? he had asked of her. Ruminating as ever of images past, and heartaches of old recent and otherwise.
Where has rum gotten you? Or killing? Or business? Or falling into bed? Is not about the past, Say-ah-ver, is about the future. The loves of the past did not work. Perhaps they were the wrong loves. Lessons taught and learned. But this is not the past. This is the now, and the now leads to the future. Perhaps now love is the right love, the final lesson in your heart-journey. You cannot know for sure this day, but the future will tell, if you let it.
He had only asked of her simply how he could rid himself of his thoughts, yet even as she imparted her method to him and offered her advice. Either to simply leave for a long time and allow the feelings to dissappear or work on his meditations. But as they had continued to talk she had questioned his fear. He would never know unless he gave it a chance. He knew this to be true. He would be forever doomed simply to stand at a crossroads, never daring to take a path. For fear of where the road might take him.
He knew this when he crossed over Neyaa's threshold but a few nights prior, he had determined to take a path and suffer the consequences yet he could not speak of the path his heart desired. He could not confess to his love. And in those agonising moments he had shouted with intent to push her away. Courage failing him upon the night. Could it be salvaged, he wondered as they had sat and shared words.
And what if it does more harm than good? He had asked her. What if it does not? came the reply.
But what if it does... He replied, questioning.
You will simply die alone, unloved, unloving and unmourned. She had answered.
He replied with a dismissive shrug, suggesting that perhaps he would try her method. Wagering as he had that it would be better to feel naught than potentially suffer further.
And yet her words lingered in his mind. He closed his eyes again. Calilla Yishai was indoctrinated from birth to feel nothing, no remorse. Her master had required it. Even as she had loved Talvor it seems she swiftly recovered from her old lessons. Yet he was not Calilla Yishai. He was Seaver of Edoras, and his wounds cut deep and his heart yearned deep down to be within the embrace of Neyaa Sunngifu. Sun gift, her mother had named her in Rohirric. For she was warm as the sun. She had certainly warmed his spirits on the few occasions he was also not wracked with turmoil over the nature of their relationship. Certainly she would have eased his spirit and brought him comfort more than once.
He opened them. Meditation would not work.
The flame of the candle was waning as was it's matter, symbolic, perhaps? He looked upon the letter. This was no summons from the Watch, he braced himself for what he was about to read as he tore the envelope free of it's wax seal, what he was to read would make the man physically ill.
It's too late. He thought, his blue eyes glistening with moisture. I've done it now. I've ruined everything. It truly is too late. Pain cuts through him like a knife. The consequences of words shouted in haste.
The man scrunched up the letter and threw it, weeping well into the night in the privacy of his own home. Unseen, unheard. Before long, there being no candle left to burn and more than one bottle sits empty upon the table along with his writing implements.
