Laer o Faen

Toled od Auth

Second Age of Middle Earth – 1600 to 1693

Nach lom od i chenid, dan eno íd damb.

The clouds in the late spring wove horsetail cotton, gray and white against the strengthening blue of the sky, darting like birds across the sun to dapple the ground with light and shade; playing tag like children. Her fingers mimicked nature's industry as Celyndailiel gently coaxed awakening shoots to wind around the flax twine she had tied in lengths against the supporting frame.

The comfortable murmuring of her companions, a soft babble in harmony with the nearby stream, ceased abruptly – discordant – and even before she looked away from her weaving of the green shoots, an unwelcome weight settled over Celyndailiel's awareness, disrupting her connection to the gardens around her.

Familiar, insistent, unyielding, it filled her with a fearful, awful longing that was as unwanted as inclement weather on festival days. Reluctantly she raised her gaze to look upon the owner of the shadow that had swallowed what remained of the dappled sunlight.

"Lord Annatar," she greeted him, refusing the use of a personal pronoun with a shiver at the very thought of it. "I had not expected to see you out in the gardens."

He did not answer her; did not speak for many moments – simply stared until she shifted uncomfortably, nervously, and only then broke his silence, speaking not to her but to her maids.

"Leave us," he said.

For their part and, she knew, out of loyalty, the lady's maids all looked her way, expressions variously of doubt or fear – sometimes both – upon their faces, and in defiance, lifting her chin, Celyndailiel raised a wordless hand to bid them stay.

"By all means," Annatar barely missed a beat before he spoke again, "if you wish witnesses to the promises we shall give then have them remain. Yes, perhaps it is for the best."

Manipulated, cornered into compliance with his will, Celyndailiel flicked her wrist, cursing inwardly in an attempt to counter the fear and other, darker emotions that were already rising within her. In contrast to the violence of feelings, her voice was soft when she spoke.

"Leave us," she said.

"But, my lady—"

One of the maids gave the beginnings of protest to her acquiescence, and Celyndailiel's heart moved toward mercy for the Elven woman's worry.

"It will be all right, Meriluin," she said, and with a hand to her companion's shoulder, repeated, "Leave us."

She released her maid and turned with her hands clasped before her to look upon the serious countenance of the Elf standing before her. He was undeniably handsome, but it was a pale, hard beauty of which Annatar was made; mesmerizing, and of that she was afraid.

When the last of her ladies had passed from sight, he spoke. His voice, deep and quiet, pressed her with unspoken resonances that pierced her hastily drawn defenses.

"I came to tell you," he began, moving closer. He reached for a hand, brought it to rest against his arm, and covered it with his other hand as he led her deeper within the gardens. "I must leave you... for a time."

She wanted to speak, to demand of him why it should trouble her that he would be absent when such an absence would be more than welcome, but her throat closed against the words and instead the same unwholesome sense of longing crept upon her, a lazy desire that was as stepping into a mire and allowing rancid weeds to drape around her shoulders like a cloak.

'A shroud,' her mind corrected her and with the strength of a momentary flash of anger accompanying the thought, she pulled her hand away from his arm and stopped walking. 'It would be a shroud upon my soul to ever accept the life he wills for me.'