“Sûlpadron will travel with you until you have a report for him to carry home”, Seregrian informed Cutch and Ardanion as they finished loading the pack horse with their provisions. She had already made known that her eagle would accompany them, but a tinge of worry for her husband and son, both Mortal, urged her to repeat herself. She trusted them both, but not the world when they ventured into it without her.
Cutch turned to her, and seeing the concern lining her perfect Elven beauty, reached for her hands. “This is not our first junket, mell bereth. Our son and I will be careful and safe.” Clearly understanding the conversation, the eagle, perched in the great King Crimson tree, let out a high-pitched whistling call.
“Aye, Lady Red-Elf. Thy Man-folk scouts shall be under my eyes”, the great bird declared.
Ardanion smiled broadly at his parents and the eagle, grateful for the roles they had all played in his upbringing. “And we will hunt fat rabbits for him”, the boy quipped. Sûlpadron replied with a series of short whistles and flapping wings, laughter at the young one’s playful poke.
Wife, husband, and son shared the eagle’s mirth, then embraced as they made their goodbyes. Seregrian watched her Men mount and ride up the winding path out of the Enclave. The riders paused at the top and waved and waited for hers before disappearing into the upper village. The eagle whistled a long goodbye and took wing after them.
Seregrian strolled back to the manor and paused at a map hung in the gallery. With an elegant finger she traced their planned route: first day to Foxden Heath in the Yondershire, second day through the Little and Michel Delvings in the Shire proper with Lancogard and Royzenberry escorting them. With no unforeseen interruptions, they should make the Sarn Ford and head out into Cardolan and find Herne on the third day.
“No unforeseen interruptions...” she muttered, hopefully.
Their first day was indeed uneventful, riding out of the Falathlorn and into the Yondershire. Gradually the brilliantly striking Elven foliage gave way to that commonly found in the hobbits’ western lands. The weather cooperated with Cutch and Ardanion; they made good time and were soon trotting parallel to the ridge hosting the old Tham Amothir ruins, the road clear and quiet. Cutch took the opportunity to approach his son on a personal matter.
“Your mother says you are troubled lately, something that she says I might help you with?”
Ardanion grew silent. His mother did not say she would speak of his worry with Ada, but he should have expected so. His father was Mortal, as was he, and his Immortal mother certainly suspected that father and son could discuss the delicate matter more successfully from their common ground of mortal maleness.
The silence grew, father allowing son to ponder for as long as he needed. “It’s Aunt Hartagil, Ada. I’ve discovered feelings for her that….”. The unfinished sentence hung in the air with the sounds of horses’ hooves clopping against the ancient road’s pavestones.
“I see…”, Cutch began, carefully forming his words. “It is understandable, for your aunt is indeed quite lovely. There are few if any fellows whose heartbeats would not quicken in her presence. Have you spoken to her about this?”
The young man sighed. “Not yet. Naneth suggests that I should but…. Seven Stars if I know how to bring it up.” Cutch glanced at his son, knowing from the boy’s tone that he would be blushing.
Cutch let the silence ease back in for a moment, then said, “You know that your feelings come from you, not her, right?”
“Yes Ada.”
“Not that your feelings are bad, for they are natural – normal for a fellow in his fifteenth year and will be with you for the rest of your life. It is important for you to know where they come from and what they are for; it can help you to cope with them.”
Again, father allowed a silent moment for his son to fill as he would, but Ardanion chose instead to listen, which Cutch took as a good sign.
“Simply put, Ardanion, it’s about having children. When males and females mate, they do so instinctively to bond together as prospective parents for the children they will have and raise. This bonding is something that the mates share for and with each other. But, aside from the feelings, each must have a sense of themselves being truly prepared for parenthood.” Cutch again paused for Ardanion to consider.
“I’m not ready to do that, Ada”, the boy immediately answered.
Cutch smiled at his son. “And you have the sense to know that and will avoid bringing your own children forth before you are ready to raise them.”
“Then why must I feel this way? It’s just not… fair….”.
“There is much that seems unfair, Danny, especially for Mortals. Our comparatively short lives, sometimes prematurely ending from sickness, make us very desperate creatures, driving our natural instincts with greater insistence. The challenge is not denying our feelings but knowing what to do with them; to understand that we do have choices.” He cast another glance at his son, who stared thoughtfully down at the road ahead, trusting his horse to momentarily know the way forward.
Ardanion blinked his focus back into the present moment and looked up at his father. “Then, are you saying I don’t really need to talk to Aunt Hartagil?”
“I don’t know, son”, Cutch ventured. “Do you? What do you think needs to be said?”
The boy shrugged. “I guess I could just be honest with her, confide in her, trust her to understand that…well…I don’t think these feelings about her should…go anywhere?”
Cutch chuckled with fondness. “It would not surprise me that she would agree. You do love each other, and have for all your life. But as Aunt and nephew, as it should be.”
The boy nodded with some confidence and turned his attention back to the road, spurring his horse a bit ahead. “We’ll be turning off soon to follow the ridgeline to the south, right?”, he asked over his shoulder.
“That’s right”, Cutch answered. He glanced up at the ruins on the ridge above and wondered how many fathers and sons may have had this very same conversation during the time since the ancient settlement was built.
They stopped for a midday meal at a crumbling circle of columns that were built centuries ago but whose purpose was long forgotten. The day continued to be pleasantly quiet, and they pressed on east following the ridge, avoiding any hobbit farms. Keeping south of Tighfield, they used the quaint double-span bridge on the Foxden Road to cross the river flowing toward Little Delving, but quickly turned south off the road, again, onto Foxden Heath. After a few more hours ride they camped for the night as the sun set behind them.
Off in the distance, they heard Sûlpadron’s whistling call, letting them know he was still close.
