PART EIGHT: Begin
Isoldis sits upon the study table with her feet resting neatly on the small chair normally reserved for other parts of the anatomy. A grand view of Imladris beckons from her peripheral vision, the fine gossamer curtains stirring endlessly in the afternoon breeze, to draw her attention every so often like a belated nudge. From her vantage point on the top floor of Elrond’s house, the vale shimmers in the heat as though it were made from a living patchwork of golds and greens; the fabrics of the Valar caught in a constant flurry that has Yavanna painting a personal storm upon every leaf and blade of grass in a million individual brushstrokes. And as if a victim of her own finite attention to detail, the Maia’s tapestry of fluid and flux is barely held together by long silver fingers that run their rapid course through the rough curves of rock with a patulous grip of desperation that would otherwise see her work slide right off her knee. How many hours Yavanna has spent enriching the play of land that carves this secret valley from Aulë’s sculpture? How much life the lady imbues into her husband’s creations? It seems an endless task and one of utter spousal devotion that Isoldis can only marvel at as she gazes upon the sleeping Lord entombed in his bed in front of her.
Lord Mittanyaro remains asleep, despite that the burned flesh around his eyes is almost completely healed, along with the numerous bite and claw marks he received from the foul creature that he smote so bravely inside the cave. None of the healers can make assurances that his vision shall ever restore; only Mittanyaro can confirm or not and although Isoldis longs for him to awaken and end her heartache upon this cruel debate, conversely, she wishes that he might stay asleep forever...remaining blissfully unaware of all that goes on around him and saving the lady self loathing anew.
Since the moment Mittanyaro felled the creature that took his sight and left him too weary to wake, Isoldis had been battling with the stark realisation that she loves the Lord, not; and although she could not leave him to an uncertain fate at the mouth of the cave nor leave him still in his peaceful slumber, she had very definitely felt the turning in her heart at that very moment when his glorious example of devotion eclipsed any attempt she could ever make in the name of love herself. Like a dark taint to enter her conscience, Isoldis knew she could never match such an example of fidelity, nor ever feel deserving to receive such. It was a bitter twist of the knife, yet a truth she could not deny...although the worst was still to come. Having admitted such an agonising fact herself, could she ever find the courage to tell Lord Mittanyaro? First, he would have to wake...and then...what?
Leaning sideways, Isoldis silently closes the window before slipping off her new silk slippers as though she has developed a penchant for bare feet aft her adventures, and tip toes across the polished stone floor to stand at Mittanyaro’s bedside. The room is sinking fast into the coming gloom of a storm that soaks the hills in purple smudges and blurs the crisp whites of the bedding into melting shades of grey, tinted with degrees of blue. The sudden dimness carves an un-shifting sea from the neat folds of linen and the lady runs her fingertips loosely across the rise and fall of the bedding as though to test its softness. A stillness pervading the air and Isoldis glances at the encroaching black clouds that splatter the windowpane with drizzle before being tempted to rest her vision upon Mittanyaro’s face, where she gingerly reads the past in his features fast scribed in shadows.
Never were they bonded, nor did they ever make purpose to be. Never did they lie together, nor even tempt affection out of place. Always was her guardian proper in his conduct and between them lay a single promise: to stay with each other until such time, as both were willing to go west...where, plans might come to fruition. Those plans were never openly discussed and Isoldis bites her bottom lip, unsure if she applied such terms and conditions to their friendship knowing full well of her inability to love him...in the end. She frowns at her mixed-up thoughts; remembering times when he brightened her life and when she did believe him to be the one. Brushing her fringe aside and taking a nervous gulp, Isoldis can only hope that if and when Mittanyaro wakens, he would allow her to love him as a friend and brother, and she smiles faintly at the imagined scenario of helping him find a wife more deserving and vastly improved upon her own meagre example.
Isoldis can hear the random patter of wet on glass, growing frantic in its tapping as well as other internal sounds the building makes and she fully expects the healers to return shortly with candles and a fire to be lit. Hurriedly, she takes Mittanyaro’s hand and squeezes it gently, leaning forward in sudden impulse to place a single, soft lipped kiss upon his lips, where never before have they touched mouth to mouth, and as she draws upright, arcing her head tight upon the undeniably cold reaction within her, Isoldis swallows heavy.
He must be told, she reaffirms privately just as the lord rouses noiselessly in the draping shadows that cling to the back wall, his limbs suddenly breathing free of the entombing linen, a deep sigh emerging from his lungs whilst his eyelids flicker upon the sudden touch of living air that has him chasing a dream. His head instinctively turns to meet Isoldis’ gaze and he smiles, enlivening his form in an instance, blinking long before adjusting his vision to be sure, she is reality...and not his imagining!
“My Lady...” He croaks and Isoldis lets loose a single, rolling tear just as the door clicks open and floods the room with light.
