The rain on my face feels like tears. Drops splash onto the surface of the lake, making the ripples dance, and patter through the leaves of the trees. I pull my legs up to my chest and sit huddled in my cloak, heedless of the wet ground, or of the mud staining my bare feet. Even now the words of Lord Anglachelm ring in my mind as though etched there permanently. The view is beautiful – shading in grey, the rain gives the lake a bleak, haunted look. It is a fitting setting for the ghosts I bring with me.
“I fear that you may do evil without knowing it.”
I am alone. Galdorion is locked within his workshop, claiming inspiration, although even if he were not I could not take this to him. All I have ever brought him is fear and disappointment. Even now, safe in the valley as he once wished, I see him look at me as if he still wonders when I will betray him and go. To blight his joy still further with such dark forebodings: the dire words of his Tur, no less... it does not bear thinking of. Perhaps especially when we both know that however much I try, I cannot avoid the question in his eyes. Even this new fear cannot change the way I feel – the desires I try to ignore.
“In the valley you will be protected as far as I could foresee”
I hoped that with time it would become easier – I would simply have to spend some time adjusting to the different pace of life in the valley. To the feeling of being helpless, and worse, useless, as I bury myself in rotting scrolls and half-forgotten scraps of knowledge, simply to have something to occupy my time. It did not get easier. My hands soften, unused to holding a sword or staff now, yet, at times, they reach of their own volition for the weapons I no longer bear. I grow accustomed to wearing shoes and fine clothes all the time, yet the sense of connection with the world that thrums up through my bare feet has me kicking my slippers off to abandon them behind some rock, simply to feel the grass between my toes. Every day I watch the sun rise and I wonder what is happening that it sees and I do not, beyond the mountains. Every day I find myself spending more and more time locked away in the library, as if by removing myself from the world I can forget that it exists. I trace maps in the margins of my notes, and when I finish I abandon them to the fire – unable to ignore the utter futility of what I do. For the first time I find myself viewing the long years before me as a burden – a wait that must be endured. Only the hope that there may be freedom somewhere ahead consoles me – at the same time the longer I remain here, while others come and go, the smaller that hope seems. And the more I long for it.
“I would stay here and remain safe... but I doubt you'll listen”
While I linger here, things change around me. Many of the lords of house Vanimar have already left the valley, sent on tasks outside, of which I know little. Even Himwen is gone – leaving only hours ago to follow Lord Tindir. Of course I understand – as I must stay, she must go. Still, I wish that she could stay. I do not know how to bear my fate without her. I am afraid – not only for myself, but for her, and all who ride with her. All the world is outside the valley, and now those I love ride to meet it, while I stay here – useless. I have fought by Himwen's side, in some sense I do not fear for her any more than I would fear for myself. I know she is a powerful warrior. But the world grows darker. Things move which I do not understand. The thought of my friends leaving to face them while I stay here, 'safe' at the cost of their peril is... difficult.
“Outside a fate awaits you two... both bitter and glorious”
I turn my gaze to the objects gathered at my feet. It has been days since I have touched my sword, yet it feels as if I set it down only moments ago. Even now, I would not have taken it up again if Lady Faerlir had not asked for advice in handling her own. Himwen had been teaching her, but now that will be impossible. The grip fits my hand as it ever did – despite weeks of idleness it feels more familiar than I would have hoped. I wonder how long it will take to forget such things, even if it is possible. Perhaps there are some things that can never be truly forgotten – though it seems almost ironic to think such a thing. I put the sword carefully down once more, hand lingering over the hilt as if reluctant to set it aside, before I pick up the only other thing I have brought here with me. The wooden box is darkened by the rain, yet its contents remain undamaged, at least until I lift the lid and pull the sheaf of papers out, exposing them to the weather. I have not opened them. Each letter is sealed with a familiar design – one I used to see at the bottom of orders, or letters which I brought to the valley. Each letter is a summons – one I am afraid to read. The world outside does not wait patiently. Before my eyes the letters on the outside of the parchment begin to run, the ink streaking as the rain washes away words I will not read. Even when the letters are reduced to nothing more than a sodden pile of smudged parchment, I cannot forget what they represent.
I put away my sword, and it did not get easier. I ignored all news from the world outside, and it did not get easier. I refused to hear the pleas of those I swore to help, I ignored the warnings of Lord Anglachelm, I deceived my friends, I rejected my own desires. I lied to Galdorion. It did not get easier. Now I sit looking out across the lake, the rain running down my face like tears, and I wait. One hand clutches an adamant, the other goes to the amulet at my neck, in which a tiny golden blossom rests. I am waiting for strength, for courage. For an end to sorrow, and fear. For a way to accept what has happened, and be glad of what is, and not fear what lies ahead. More than this, I wait for it to get easier.
