Thírharn had not known exactly what to do with him, a fact he can't entirely protest. He isn't certain what to do with himself either.
But needle and thread are tools he knows, and he wields them no worse than another might have. The fire is warm, his mind untaxed, and so the simple task of fixing something has soothed him nearly into reverie. Nonetheless, when the door opens with a soft brush of leather hinges, he looks up.
An unfamiliar Elf hovers there upon the doorstep, clad in traveling clothes and rain-stained cloak. He drips steadily upon the carpet for a moment, and Saedhruin turns back to his work. The door is closed again, the distant voices shut out. The fire's crackle once more dominates the room.
"I-- I was sent to aid you." The newcomer at last stammers out, and Saedhruin nearly grins at him. He smiles instead, and looks up once more from the faded green of the shirt in his lap.
"There is nothing urgent to be done for now," he says, "but if you can sew, there is much to be mended."
"Aye," the voice is relieved, and Saedhruin nearly laughs, once again holding it back. He has never mastered laughing at the correct times, or sobering at others, and like as not the young Elf would take it for insult. Many ages has Saedhruin lived, and yet people will never not be strange.
The room is not large, and the creaking armchair it once bore has been long burned for fuel, so the young one sits as Saedhruin does, cross-legged on the floor before the fire. He sets to with a steady hand, and no protest at the unglorious work.
Saedhruin's hands turn and weave with precision, the slender needle nearly a chisel in his grasp. The thread is well crafted and slides easily through the broadcloth with each rise and fall of the needle. The embers settle with a soft rustle and above the old building creaks. A song starts up, turning and weaving about the room, like the needle, like the thread, like his hands, and Saedhruin nearly opens his mouth to sing it. He does not wish to unnerve the young Elf though, and instead asks a question.
"Where did you learn to sew?" Not many in this place can, turned more to war than craft.
The young Elf glances up warily, but Saedhruin's smile must not be too strange, for he answers after only a small pause. "My brother taught me,"
One-phrase answers it is. The fire burns steadily, and another log shifts and collapses with a sigh. They have and have had many problems here, but fuel--- thank goodness--- is no longer one of them. Autumn deepens around them, and it has been a grief-wracked one by all account. One less burden on their minds has been a relief.
"Who is your brother?"
Once, long ago, his sister would mock him for such an effort, and say laughing that an interrogation did not small talk make. Perhaps Saedhruin has learned some things in the intervening years, but that skill is not one of them. He doubts this young one would appreciate a comment on the weather.
“Edlothon dwells in the city,” The Elf says. Almost defensively, he continues, “he is a gardener there.”
“Ah, I’ve seen his work then. Very fine, indeed. You know me, or seem to, and since I have the brother’s name may I also have yours?”
He laughs a little, relaxes more, and Saedhruin’s hands continue their work without the aid of his eyes.
“I am called Haerandel, herdir,” he says, and though his gaze turn once more to his work he seems to at last have gotten over his nerves. The fire leaps, and flashes off his silver hair and young face. He is of age, Saedhruin can be certain, for no child would have been allowed here, but so young yet.
In his hands, the last pull and knot are finished, and he folds the garment neatly. It goes to the stack, and he pulls another from the basket. Swift hands find the tear and thread the needle, and his task begins anew. The fire is warm, and crackles peacefully.
