(As always, thanks to Hallowisp for her inspiration! Hathlafel and Taja belong to her, along with the italicized text below!)
“Lalaith, you got more mail.” Gilberen’s tone poorly masked her irritation as she entered the common area for the wards of the Temple.
Lalaith looked up from her book with surprise. “Oh. Uhm, thank you, Gilberen,” she said as the other girl fairly tossed the small package in her lap in a small fit of petulance and turned away to her own devices.
Lalaith looked down. Obviously, this was not from Feira. The cardstock was heavy and fine, clearly expensive. She opened the letter first and slowly withdrew what soon proved to be a wedding invitation.
Lord Carmanadh of House Colagar and Lady Mredothyn joyfully invite you to their wedding…
Lalaith stared down at the sunny golden paper and the unfamiliar calligraphy for a long moment, genuinely torn between smiling and crying. The little box that attended the invitation sat forgotten in her other hand.
The choice of colors seemed to have Mredothyn written all over it, and that made her happy. But it should have been her hand which styled the lettering across the fine linen paper. It should have been her arraying a selection of paper colors and patterns before her friend for the happy task of choosing. That she hadn’t been the one to help Mredothyn navigate the overwhelming task of wedding planning hurt.
But it had been her own doing, hadn’t it?
“What you did was selfish and cowardly. Carmanadh would never say so, but I will. They’re pulling away from you because they don’t want to make it worse, to make you try again.”
Hathlafel’s words came back to her. She wondered for a moment why he never seemed to be afraid to say whatever he wanted to her.
She sighed and pulled on the twine which encircled the little box. A chocolate swan sat therein, and she felt her expression ease into a small smile. Yes. She would smile.
She rose and approached Gilberen, who sat sifting through a basket of fabric scraps nearer the fire.
“It was kind of you to deliver my mail,” Lalaith began.
Gilberen glanced up, her lips thin. “…sure.”
“Here.” Lalaith offered her the little box with the chocolate swan. “I’m afraid I ate too much at dinner. And this really should be enjoyed. …please, will you have it?”
Gilberen blinked down at the swan, her lips parting. Likely, the closest the peasant girl had ever come to a delicacy like that had been peering through a patisserie window. “…really?” she asked, dubious. “Why don’t you just keep it for tomorrow?”
Lalaith smiled. “Because it would give me greater pleasure to give it to you.”
Gilberen, looking unconvinced, nevertheless accepted the little box. “Well, all right. Thanks.”
Lalaith nodded and turned away. She collected her things and returned to the bare little room in which she slept. Laying the invitation on the small table, she went to the window and looked out over the gloaming bay.
The first stars began to appear and Lalaith smiled up at them. She felt her heart lightening. And it felt so good.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Panja was on the mend and married. They’d done, finally, what they’d come to Forochel to do. Feygil packed the last of her things into her saddlebags, more than ready to return to Durrow and Naethlan and Thannadan.
She was glad they’d managed to circumvent Taja’s execution. Mostly because it would mean Tumma would be denied the power of the Kavaltaja, if only for a little while longer.
She knew, though, however strongly she would deny it to anyone else, there was another reason she was glad he wasn’t dead.
“I began seeking ways to fix this problem on my own. I knew that no one else would. That was when I left for the south. In the years I worked on the docks in Dol Amroth, I learned about parliament, elections, trials, juries. None of these were things that we had in Forochel, where the men who were strongest led by default, and blood was the only prerequisite for supremacy.
Every year, new ideas challenge the old traditions. In most cases, it is for the best. The old ways may be honoured, and maybe they were right for us once, but it is time for the silent to have a voice. Forochel is isolated. Long has it clung to the old ways, proudly protecting the lest scraps of its identity. But the world is changing. If Forochel is to survive, it must change with it.”
Taja could have been writing about Minas Tirith, about Ithilien. He had been sure that Panja’s leadership would lead to the ruin of his people. As sure as Fey herself was that the Steward was leading her people into darkness and death.
His deal with the devil had nearly taken his life. Hers had torn her heart from her chest, robbed her of her life’s purpose. What was the difference?
Ystävä. The word, in his voice, echoed in her ears, drove her mad.
If she could just get back to Durrow, hug Thannadan tight, she could put it all behind her. Forget the golden eyes with the tortured expression.
It would all be better when she got home.
Valael Valia Tia 