It had been many years since Anorieldis had taken up the studies of lore, herbalism and painting. The first two had been deemed proper by her parents. The last was of her choosing, having had the propensity toward art during the majority of her sixteen years. She spent most of her time in the Houses of Lore, studying little and great things by candlelight, in the darkened rooms of those vast libraries.
She was a strange creature back then, shy and unaccustomed to most interaction from her peers. Indeed, it was oft that she was found hiding in the stacks with only a book and a candle. She did not care for the company of others, and merely took their presence in with a frustrated sort of tolerance.
She was used to practicing the art of painting. It was a welcome relief from the hours spent in the stacks, and out in the wild, seeking out herbs. She lived in a single room, but it was cluttered with the fruits of her labors. Herbs in flasks and phials, books stacked five or more high on small tables, and various paintings littering the walls. Even her tutors admitted their subject matter was odd.
Anorieldis never painted portraits. Landscapes were a favorite, as were depictions of battles and other manners of death. It was one of these which a young nobleman, Gwyraborn, saw as she was painting it.
She did not notice the young man as he approached. She was keen on the brushstrokes, how the flesh of the woman in the center of the painting gleamed in the otherwise dark. She finished a spot of the painting, and set down her brush and palette, examining the work critically.
"It is exquisite," came a voice from behind her, and she started, nearly jumping from her skin.
"Valar! How did you get here?" she asked, nearly defensively. Her gaze upon him was impassive, but he was a handsome enough man, she reasoned.Though he wore simple robes, they were of a fine make, and his appearance was otherwise nondescript but for the strange, golden locks upon his head.
"I was ushered in by the Master. I was curious about what occurs in this room. Now I see." He folded his arms over his chest, examining both painting and painter in agonizing detail.
"Can't see what you would want," she replied, turning back toward the painting at hand. It was nearly finished.
"You can almost hear the screams of that woman. It is as though she knows she is about to be torn limb from limb by the encroaching wargs," he noted, indicating each aspect with a single finger. He did not touch the painting, but rather gestured toward it.
"What does it matter to you, sir?" she asked, whirling around to face him. Her dark blue eyes examined him with the same impassivity as before.
"More than you think," he replied.
The young nobleman soon haunted Anorieldis's steps, though not in any menacing way. He sought out her company, even when she did not know what to say, and was confounded as to what she ought to do. They spent a myriad of hours together, conversing upon matters of philosophy, medicine and art. Anorieldis was hardly up to the task of doing such, and so she often conceded points to him, unable to formulate her deeply-held opinions in a manner befitting a a conversationalist.
There was a curiosity between them, which soon became an interest, which soon became a fascination, and finally something of an obsession. Gwyraborn was intrigued by her. Surely there was some beauty to one who made such realistic and morbid paintings. For, he thought, there was beauty even in death.
One evening, after many months of this game, the two were seated in a grassy knoll outside of the Houses. It was then that Gwyraborn made his intentions known.
"Anorieldis," he cooed, bringing the girl's eyes to his own. "What do you think of these past months, of our time together?"
The girl was not sure what to say, and so she spoke as best she could, knowing little in these matters: "I suppose you could say that I have thought little on the matter, but you have grown to be another habit of mine, another daily routine. I could say, perhaps, that I even like you."
"You like me?" he asked, drawing near her on the grass. "You like me? Do you not wish to be somewhere else besides the Houses of Lore sometimes?"
"I have never thought of being anywhere else," she replied calmly.
"And yet. And yet you are the most adored, to me. I can hold back no longer, my darling. I have, over the past few months, formed an attachment to you. And so I cannot but ask if you will, in future, do the honor to be my wife." His look was hopeful, his tone soft. It took her a moment to reply, for his words confused her.
"Why would you want that?" she asked honestly, folding her hands across her belly.
"Because I desire you. I desire no one else. Your gifts are many, and I wish to give you a share in mine. Please, Anorieldis. Please say yes!"
"I cannot but say no," she said bluntly, rising to her feet. "I cannot but say no. I've no desire to be a man's wife, and I've even less to be the mother of a man's children. I do like you, Gwyraborn, but do not broach the matter with me. I am content with our friendship."
"But I am not!" he cried, rising to follow her. "If you but knew the depth of my feelings!"
"I care not," she replied. "Leave me be." She walked away, clutching her book. It was the only sign of her unease. He did not follow her.
Anorieldis blinked, remembered telling this tale to someone. She was not pretty, she was not in anyway attractive in relation to other women. She knew this, and it never gave her pause. She sat in her room, putting down her book, and thinking.
She had taken Gwyraborn's death in Osgilliath with some discomfort. The man had not married. He had made his life as a soldier. She wondered if he had been foolhardy because she had been so.foolish as to reject him. The alliance would have been an excellent one. But the thought of bearing children horrified her. She was better as she was, and would do well to forget the keenings of Gwyraborn.
Several thoughts creeped up on her, though. The first was, was that the only chance of romance she would ever experience? Was she too old to repeat something similar? The second was this: Had she a heart? She did not know, as she had rarely felt anything other than disinterest for most people.
Gwyraborn was a stain for her. It had marked her. And yet it had come a long way in making her who she was. Besides, she did aim to please herself.
