The fork, propelling through the air by means of a fist hitting the table too hard, clatters to the ground. The sound is lost over the chatter and laughter of the patrons. It lies there for a few moments before a wayward boot-kick sends it sliding across the hardwood floor. Neatly tucking itself in the dark crevice underneath a bookshelf, it waits. One would like to say that it shall be found soon, dearly missed by its owner, but in all truth of the matter it shall sit there for many days and weeks until the inn is thoroughly cleaned. It’s absence will be noted and it’s discovery celebrated, briefly, but little pondering will be spent upon how it ended up there and how terrible it must have felt trapped alone down there with the dust and mice. It shall simply be returned to the kitchen with a cheerful smile, sent back out with another meal for the cycle to chance repeat.
And when it is discovered, it is not by the hands of the one who is the usual diligent caretaker of such small things, like the fates of forks and the bending of knives.
“I found this beneath the bookshelf!” Ithilwë exclaims as he offers it to his husband, leaning across the table in the kitchen to hand it to Amathlan, who is occupied already with assisting Theothar with washing the dishes. That is to say, he is offering the Man the dishes to wash, as he seems quite content in his routine and Amathlan does not wish to disturb it.
“Oh? I worry to think how many more have escaped our notice,” Amathlan murmurs as he sets the fork aside, within Theothar’s view so the man would not overlook it. The Ñoldo turns back to face Ithilwë, raising his gaze to see the weariness that lines his husband’s shoulders at the thought of going back out into the empty tavern hall to search the floor for discarded dinnerware.
“Go to bed,” Amathlan insists in a soft tone of voice. Ithilwë shakes his head and looks from the doorway to him. Sensing the other about to protest, Amathlan leaves the Man with the dishes to walk closer to his husband. “You have busied yourself all night tending to the patrons. Go upstairs and rest. I can handle collecting the rest of the dish-ware.”
Ithilwë sighs again, letting the tension drop from his shoulders in an exhausted manner. With a nod, he reaches out and puts a hand on Amathlan’s shoulder before pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. Although Amathlan tenses up, it passes just as quickly and he gives Ithilwë a smile before the other heads up the stairs to their room. It is his turn now to heave a sigh as he slips into the main hall of the inn.
In the darkness and silence of the once-bustling tavern, he understands how the fork could be lost for so long. With candlelight only to light the floor, there is no way he’ll be able to find any other discarded silverware in dark crevices. Ithilwë has sharper eyes and more slender arms. Nonetheless, he moves closer to the bookshelves and kneels down, trying to peer and see if anything else has been overlooked in the hurry of the day.
Now Ithilwë may not have taken the time to sit and appreciate the plight of the fork lost beneath the dusty bookshelf, but Amathlan is a poet, and his mind was quick to fall down the path of I wonder how it got here, I wonder how long it would have gone unnoticed, I wonder if being stuck aside until it’s finding is anything like how we are treated; I wonder if I am so rarely missed and so briefly celebrated upon being found again; I wonder if I will just be placed aside and forgotten and then left.
Then he remembers that the tavern is empty. Save his husband, and the strange Man who washes the dishes, and the strangers who rent rooms… his friends are gone. He has been left here. And he is not sure if they will all be coming back.
