Cutch’s baited hook plopped into the slowly moving stream. Droplets lifted up from the suddenly forming ripples and danced in the mid-morning sunlight. He watched the worm drift towards the stream bed, and with a deft flick of the rod made it enticingly dance.
You must go, Little Man. You can’t hide your shame here.
Caladna’s remembered words, which she’d issued from above crossed arms, were not without kindness, but neither were they intended to soothe. She was right, of course. He had to go to Her. He wanted to go to Her. He knew the best part of him did not just come from Her, it came WITH Her. That was the vital lesson he learned when he tried to face their intended assassin alone. Being incomplete, weaker without Her, was probably why he was eventually caught by Gilmorwen’s minions.
You can’t forgive yourself until she forgives you.
A barely perceptible tug on the line pulled his attention down to the stream. Glimmering through the flow, the glint from the empty hook teased him. A clever fish had stolen its meal and was likely retreating with a watery chuckle at the Man’s inattentiveness. Cutch drew up the hook and sighed. Sitting on the bank, he paused to take in his surroundings before searching the bait pouch for another worm.
Pemberth was a small village south of Bree, its homes lining the inside of a bowl irregularly shaped by a cluster of steep-sided hills, their wooded slopes hugged together. The bottom of the bowl held a few homes, the village common, the shops, and the broad and deep pond fed by the stream which in turn flowed from a tall cascade tumbling in over the bowl’s lip. The bowl was old, as evidenced by the rich, time-churned soil that provided good garden plots for the residents. The surrounding hills allowed in enough sun, rain, flora, and fauna to complete a necessary natural environment. The sole road into the town passed through a notch in the lip opposite the falls, and from that spot, one could see a quiet village, it’s peaceful atmosphere perfect for Cutch’s purpose; recovery of body and heart.
Caladna’s uncle, Garrison Greenlake, had built a cottage here, next door to the shops, hoping one day to pass it on to one of his children, but he and his wife were never to be so blessed, and when he passed, his wife closed the place up, preferring to stay on with family at the Greenlake farms just west of Bree. Caladna took an interest in the place, and with her aunt’s permission, reopened it as a place of quiet reflection and retreat, and now housed Cutch there for precisely that purpose, for he was in need of that, too. Little Man, as he was called by his closest friends, sat behind the cottage on the bank of the stream and plucked another worm from the small pouch.
She loves and needs you just as much as you love and need her.
He dropped the worm on the ground, lay down his rod, and emptied the pouch. The released worms writhed about, mindless of the danger from which they were rescued, simply going back to what they naturally do; live in the rich soil. Cutch adjusted the bandage over his eye and then leaned back against his elbows.
The abuse he took atop Ost Barandor seemed thankfully long ago. An insane ancestor tortured him, and would have killed him had he been successful in his deliberate taunting. Was he insane as well? He shook his head at that, realizing that he was acting out of desperation to protect Her from the very fate he was suffering at his grandmother’s cruel hand. But that was the whole crux of this matter, wasn’t it; desperation.
His mishandling of that episode was born of desperation, fueled by fear for Her well-being and rage at anyone who would threaten it. His love for Her was so great, he would dare anything to protect Her, even throwing himself fiercely at unseen danger. He moved with reckless disregard, not only for his life but for Her heart, and in the end, he nearly became the very agent of the fate he was trying to avoid for Her, all this from desperation. How could he possibly expect Her to forgive him for this, to ever trust him again?
Desperation.
Some Mortals worship them...
Was that it? Was it worship of Her that had driven him to such mindless zeal? Was it his splash of Elf blood, previously unrecognized and misunderstood, that caused him to see Her in such a lofty light? The revelation about his true ancestry could explain at least a part of his draw to her, but he knew that was not all of it. His wish to be Her husband and the father of their children had not diminished with this new discovery, instead it brought it into an even more compelling clarity. Still, this was much more about them as Seregrian and Cutch than it was about an Elf-maid and a “half-blood”, as his insane grandmother had dubbed him.
She loves and needs you just as much as you love and need her.
With resolve, he stood, gathered his things, and strode back toward the cottage to pack for his trip to the Falathlorn, to Her Lair. Time to accept the lessons his own foolishness had taught him, kick the angst out, and just go home while there was a chance it might still be called such.
Caladna, of course, would insist on accompanying him, and that meant Clay as well. The Circle, it seemed, was once more whole, or would be, once they saw Her again.
