It was rare, of late, for Telpelir to steal a measure of solitude in the valley of Imladris. Not begrudging Alphel nor Gwaun their presence, of course, the solitude he sought was that from edhil. Perhaps it was a strange quirk of his, a bizarre contradiction, to be one who so adored applause and company, yet desired at the same time to be left to his own devices.
Telpelir, personally, considered it a never ending battle between nature and nurture.
He was raised to be someone else, with all the responsibilities he never wanted in the aftermath of a horrific event. He was raised with standards. Morals. Expectations of both behavior and thought. He did not feel resentment to his parents for raising him as such, in the brief span they had together. No, he did not resent it, but he fought it.
He had chosen to be someone else, free of responsibility, of the shackles of expectations, and he found his liberty in the aftermath of war. In Middle Earth he was a bard with no name, no face, silver and fair but unremarkable in the throng of Lindai that clustered about Mithlond. It was precisely how he liked it, exactly what he craved.
Yet, in this valley, he was both not who he was, and not who he chose to be. In Imladris, he was noted as unusual for his silver hair, for his fair voice and nimble harping. There were new expectations, though no responsibilities.
Friendship was something new, delightful, foreign. In Fearelhil, he found he would dance on eggshells to find the balance between the feelings of himself and the red-haired ellon, and what joy and worry there was in the dancing! Silwë had been altogether unexpected; who would have known that friendship would blossom so quickly between one who did not truly repent the Kinslayings, and one who was a victim of the very first? That... that particular bond did confuse Telpelir, but all his concerns seemed trivial when he was in the company of the Ñoldo.
Then there were those of whom he knew less, yet still felt a strange fondness for. Perhaps it was the loneliness finally sinking it’s claws in too deep to him, that he hastily forged connections with those to whom he shared so little in common.
Telpelir spent the day pondering these thoughts, those strange feelings, even as the sun began to fall away and the valley grew shrouded in twilight. Alphel and Gwaun kept him company, even as he studiously avoided all others. He craved something, something he could not put to name, not until with the rising of the Moon did clarity hit him like a spark of inspiration.
His restlessness, his uncertainty, his yearning for something else… all of it was rooted in the sea-longing.
He knew the first stirrings when he felt them truly; the most notable sign was tasting the air and finding it stale for it’s lack of salt. That itching restlessness in his twitching hands and pacing feet now suddenly had a name, a purpose, and he felt his nerves alight with energy both fey and wild.
Perhaps it was time for a visit to Lindon once again… no, it was most definitely time. He could no longer find rest in the roaring rivers of the valley; swimming in those strong waters brought him less and less joy, for all their currents, they did not ebb and flow like a tide, and remained ever constant. His was not a heart to enjoy stagnation, the same routine day in and day out. He craved spontaneity, the thrills of the unknown, the unpredictable.
He was born to the sea, and to it, he would ever return. What others called sea-longing and felt as something strange and new, he felt as natural as drawing breath, save, one that plagued him far less often. Not for long could he bear to be parted from the shore, his time in Imladris had been his longest yet spent away from the sea. Wooded boughs and hidden valleys held little charm for one who saw beauty most in the open harbor and the crying of gulls overhead.
Not even for those he had grown to care for, could he truly love this valley. Though they saw him, they laughed with him and even sang with him, these Ñoldor that he quickly he grew to love (and grew to love one in particular, whom bore eyes of fire and such shyness as to make his defenses wilt and his ardor surge), they were not his people, they were not of the sea.
Suddenly, the very thought of staying even one more star-studded night in the enclosed valley felt like a band too-tight around his chest.
He was old, he was fickle and fey. He had arrived in Imladris without warning or prompting, and so too that would be how he would leave, and should there be wrath upon his flight then let it be! He chose long ago to never be shackled, not even by his own longing.
They would understand, perhaps. Telpelir for all his cheer, was a sea-elf, and by that very nature, unpredictable and untameable. If Círdan was of Uinen, stoic and calm, then Telpelir was of Ossë, wild and free.
His choice made, he sprang to his feet and called to Alphel and Gwaun, racing with speed down the stone paths of Imladris. It felt as if there was no time to waste, and already he could practically hear the waves in his ears and see the foamy surf in the corners of his vision. His heart gave it’s wings to his feet, and surely to anyone who saw him flying down the paths, it would seem as if he was little more than a streak of silver vanishing into the gloom of night.
To his rooms he went first, only to throw together the few possessions he had; his harp went in it’s case, the unadorned box was hesitated upon, before he left it upon the nightstand with a note for it to be given into the care of Silwë, for cleaning and preservation. His armor, too, he left, and his shield, taking only his sword for armament. He had no intentions of leaving for long; as much as he yearned for the sea, he enjoyed the company of those few, new, friends he had far too much to leave it for long. His rooms reflected this; there was still a pile of books heaped haphazardly (or dangerously) on the corner of his desk, the parchments containing his various attempts at songs, both successful and not, still strewn without a care across the floor where he had crumpled them or in a flurry of excitement, simply swept them off his desk.
His preparations made, he laughed with Alphel and Gwaun as they followed him to the stables. A quick apology to the drowsy stablehand, and agreement, he guided the mare out of her stable, forgoing even a saddle in his haste and excitement for the journey. Only for a moment did he pause, his gaze lingering upon the vaunted rooftops of Imladris, the Homely House. Only for a moment, did he hesitate, before he lept onto the back of his mare and turned his face to the west.
He stole away like a thief in the night, laughing to the wind upon his borrowed mare as she took to the road with haste. Twin shadows flew overhead, one white as sea-sand, the other more humble brown colored dark by the moonlit night. They were no silent night-owls, not the birds nor the silver-haired ellon in the saddle.
It should not have been a surprise they were noticed by the things that hated the Sun, and hated those who laughed so fairly most of all.
Alphel fell first, the barbed shaft piercing the joint between wing and body, pinions folding as she plummeted past the slope of the mountainside. Telpelir whirled his horse, hand flying to his sword even as the second shaft hit him with numbing force in the shoulder.
His horse crumpled, blood black in the night on her throat.
Gwaun flew away into the night, his white wings swift.
Telpelir fell, a flash of silver vanishing into the dark.
