Early morning brought birdsong and the sighing of breeze in the boughs to the Elven vale of Falathlorn, with cherry blossoms drifting on the zephyrs off the river Lhûn. At the great spire of Duillond that overlooked the river valley, two Elf-maids were taking in the morning airs and gazing along the river’s winding path to the Sea.
“There, do you see? Another party is leaving, bound for Celondim,” Nathronwen said, pointing back up the slope to the stables. “Yet another company goes to depart the Havens. And yet, here we stay. What keeps you here, Badennas, how many times will you resist the call?”
“And how many times will we have this talk, mellon nin?” Badennas replied. “Those who leave are of the High Kindred, whose home was never here; or they are those for whom the Hither Shore holds no more joy. And I am neither. This is my home, the only home I have ever known, so why should I leave?”
“Many times I have heard such words from others,” Nathronwen said, “but they only delay the journey for a time, never truly ignoring it. I wonder at you, my friend, how many turns of the seasons shall you delay?”
“For as many as my heart tells me,” Badennas laughed lightly. “Now look about you, there is such beauty this day! And see? Across the river there, to the vale by the river, is that not Torn-en-Aduial there? And the grand manor by the river, see it? There is another party assembling, but they do not seem to be departing for haven, they are preparing for a different journey.” Nathronwen followed Badennas’ gaze across the river to where a gathering of horses and folk stood beneath the trees.
“Ah, I see as you do. Now, is that manor not the one named Torech Besruth? A harsh name for its harsher mistress –“
“Who is it that says thus?” came a voice behind the maids, as a tall and fair ellon approached the pair. “Know you not the mistress of whom you speak so loosely?”
“Ah, Isferon! Poking your head out of the Archives for a morning airing?” Nathronwen said. “You of all people would know of whom we speak?”
“Better than you, it would seem,” Isferon said as he stood next to the pair. “How long have you both known Seregrían, and all that she has accomplished, to say such of her?”
“Yes, yes, we all know,” Badennas said chidingly, “especially when you get to speaking of your former colleague, besotted as you are with her even now!”
“Say not ‘besotted’,” Isferon bristled at the comment, “but rather I hold her in high regard, as those who know her do. But did I not hear you just now say there is a departure at hand?”
“Yes, you can see there, a mounted company proceeding up the trail out of the valley?” Badennas could not resist teasing, “A small party, with a crimson vision of loveliness at their head?”
“Loveliness, indeed,” Nathronwen joined in the teasing, “for who else might make your heart enflamed!” Both women laughed, their laughter stilled when they saw Isferon’s discomfort.
“You make jest, as is your way,” Isferon said bitterly, “with the folly of youth heavy on both of you. So I shall take my leave, and leave you both to your mirth. Yavanna grant you a beautiful spring day.” And Isferon turned on his heel and walked at a brisk pace back up to the heights. The two elf-women watched him go, Badennas sighing as he left their view.
“I regret that,” she said, “for Isferon speaks of Seregrían with regret in his turn. Perhaps ‘besotted’ is a cruel word for what lay in his heart…”
“What is this tale!” Nathronwen cried. “Surely you don’t mean that Isferon tried to woo the likes of her!?”
“And why not? The two of them have a long history between them. When Seregrían first came to Duillond, she and Isferon built the Scholar’s Archives – well, they started together at first, but he quickly realized he was utterly outshone by her intellect and resolve. He always took the second chair in all they did. He has always admired her, both in their craft and as an elleth.
“But he learned her heart was both ice and stone, in those days. Her only passion was lore, second only to her despite for Mortals. And now, look at her, wedded to one, and Isferon’s unrequited hopes are dashed.”
Nathronwen stood silent, taking all this in as she gazed across the river once more. The mounted company had paused at the overlook above the vale, gazing back towards the manor one last time. In the center of the party, plain to Elven eyes, could be seen an Elf-woman clad in scarlet upon a red-dressed horse. Both maids watched as the red elf seemed to gaze back at them, then raised her black hat and waved it in token of greeting.
“There, behind us, see?” Badennas said, looking back up the slope to where Isferon stood, his hand raised in both greeting, and farewell. The look on Seregrian’s face was that of greeting a friend; Isferon’s face was a pasted smile, hiding a message.
“Do you suppose she knows?” Nathronwen wondered aloud. “How could she not?”
“If she does, she might spare his feelings, I deem,” Badennas said. “Being a wife, and now a mother, has softened her in these later days.”
“Where are they off to, this company she rides with?”
“We shall learn, no doubt, from Isferon when they return…”
