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4.  Recovery

Wearily, Feren sat down beneath a shady beech a ways away from the Venyel and Ilcanu, who were noisily removing their shoes to enjoy the grass.  He heaved a sigh of relief for getting off his own feet.  Rostaro stood leaning against another shady tree, smiling at their younger companions while keeping a close eye on him.  He did not mind being watched so carefully for then he could lower his guard.  That had been one of the best things about the guest house.  He had felt safe there.

The loremaster had called for a break from their steady march to the sea, mostly so he could rest.  His general fitness had improved.  It helped to be doing something to work up an appetite.  However the past several days, he had not been able to sleep, becoming fatigued.  While passing a tranquil grove by a swift-flowing brook, Rostaro had decided that they would stop to cool off.  The road was empty of other travelers for a change, so they had the pleasant spot all to themselves, without any curious onlookers.  Rostaro also figured they should take advantage and stay longer then they normally would.

His tired body was yearning to restore the reserves used up since his return to life.  Except that his jittery mind continued to hover in the air like a dragonfly – deceptively idle but in fact tauntingly aware.  Reclining limp-limbed against the tree trunk, he gradually began to feel drowsy and that he might finally fall asleep.  Then in a flitter, his thrumming thoughts jerked away from his drooping body like a light sleeper jarred by a sudden footfall.  Amazingly, his mind was seeing, hearing, and conscious, while his body was in a deep slumber.

And he was dreaming while yet awake!  Delighted and frightened at the same time, he stared unblinking into night in the middle of the day.

A turning ring of merry people were vigorously dancing as lively drums, strings, and pipes loudly played.  Strangely, the dancers moved in a suspended, liquid motion; both feet too long off the ground, their clothes and hair floating through the air as if through water.  Whereas, the moon moved more in time with the melody; vaulting over the trees, casting crawling shadows across the ground.  The stars swiftly wheeled behind Ithil as he arched in full brightness across an infinite, black sky.  Call to me...  His heart begged of the revelers.  Call me to come join you... please!...

A tall couple whirled out from the throng and came directly to him, walking hand-in-hand.  Sharp, lancing lights dangerously flashed in their eyes as they ardently gazed at each other.  They drifted down to their knees and sat back on their heels before reluctantly turning their attention to him.

The golden-haired lady leaned provocatively towards him, curiosity plain on her familiar face.

“Is he awake?” she asked her silver-haired companion, speaking in a low, sultry voice.

He wanted to tell them to speak to him and not just to each other.  That he could hear them.  That he knew they were there.

“Yes,” was her partner’s sly, whispered answer.  “But surely, also dreaming.”  The lord’s face was like a clouded mirror, reflecting his own face.  There was more then a blood-bond between him and this kinsman.  You know me, gwanur... name me, mellon...

Another dancer peeled away from the fluid festivities, jubilantly leaping and turning, to fall to his knees between the lord and lady; his long, candle-light locks spilling loose over his young shoulders.  The lad’s unsullied innocence touched him and he remembered feeling the same poignant sweetness before.  Dearest child... let me hold you again...

“Do you see us?”  The youth leaned forward and reached out to him.

“No!” cried the lord, his warning too late.  “Do not touch him!”

The lad poked his shoulder and his body reflexively struck out, protecting itself.

Venyel cried out in fright and was thrown back as Ilcanu fell heavily against her. 

“Feren, stop!  Stop!” yelled Rostaro, holding his hands up in a flat, halting gesture, not daring to grab him.

He angrily leapt to his feet, hands fisted, wholly alert.  The dancers were real people; he had seen them all before – somewhere.  The three that had come to him had brought with them the possibility of names.  Names sliding like droplets to the edge of his memory where they might have been caught and gathered up ere they fell away.  Until Ilcanu recklessly nudged him and shook them off.  He wanted to strike the idiot helper again.

“No, Feren!” ordered Rostaro, rising up.  “Calm down.  He is just too young to understand.”

Frustrated, he sat down again, propping his elbows on his knees and holding his head in his hands.

“I almost had their names!” he cried aloud, passing his hands over his hair.  He knew that if sent for, they would have come for him and taken him in with no questions.  “I almost had their names,” he bemoaned more quietly.

Red-faced, Ilcanu helped Venyel sit up, apologizing profusely to her.  Rostaro gave the helper a hard look.

“I am sorry, Feren,” said Ilcanu, obeying the loremaster’s unspoken insistence while rubbing his bruised chest.  “I did not think.”

“You never do,” he crossly replied.  “But then, Ñolmo Rostaro has yet to teach you how.”  Ilcanu’s face crumbled and Rostaro looked ready to protest. 

The lad was not stupid.  Despite being clumsy, or perhaps because of it, the young ellon was very likable.  The loremaster had taken up lecturing the helper as a way to shorten the miles.  They were always careful to talk out of his hearing so that he would not accidentally learn something that would ruin his recovery.  However, he felt that Ilcanu needed a stronger guiding hand then what had been applied so far.  The sister and loremaster patronized the youth too much.

Venyel scooted over to sit beside him.  Taking his hands away from his head and placing her own hands on each side, she drew his face around to look at her.

“Tell me the dream,” she said.  “Describe who you saw.  No, do not close your eyes.  See them again.”  He did his best for her, but the dream was disappearing like dew under the sun.  Considering the odd nature of this sleep and disrupted as it was, he feared that it would never come back.

“There were dancers,” he said.  “All familiar faces and I heard the music and voices.”  He sucked in a breath between his teeth, hissing his anger.  “’Tis already fading.”

“Then, tell me more before it does,” the sister insisted.

“A lady Vanya and a lord Teler,” he told her hesitantly.  “And their son... I think.  Glaeru!”  

“Language, Feren,” automatically admonished Rostaro.

“He’s your tyro, not me!” he snapped back, irritated.  Venyel held on as he almost slipped from her grasp.

“What did he say?” asked Ilcanu.  With a terse expression, Rostaro grabbed the helper’s shoulder and pointed his finger under the lad’s nose, a clear order to shut up.

“Think where you could have met them,” urged Venyel.  “How would they have come to Ennor?  Where would such people live?”

He snickered because he suddenly had the answer to her last question.  And it was so sublimely ridiculous.

“In a friggin’ tree,” he said helpless to stop his laughter.  He grabbed Venyel’s hands and took his face away from her, leaning away and stretching out on his back over the ground.  He was laughing, really laughing, for the first time since being reborn.  It felt wonderful!  Venyel had grasped his arm and was tugging on it, trying to get him to sit up again.  She must think him gone mad!

“Leave him, Seler,” Rostaro told her with a shake of his head.  “He has gone beyond his Dying and that is what matters.”  Hearing that diagnosis, he rejoiced, intoxicated with hope. 

“Hurrah!” he yelled, sitting upright and throwing his arms up in the air, then falling back to the ground still laughing.  Venyel sat up straight, her hands useless in her lap.  Hers was a forlorn smile.

“So then we shall not be going to Alqualondë?” she asked, expecting confirmation.  He stopped laughing, anxious what Rostaro’s answer would be.  He was recovering his memory; the loremaster might well have them return to the guest house.  Which would be a sad thing for they all had been looking forward to seeing the harbor city and swimming in the waves.

Before embarking on this journey, Rostaro had had a candid discussion with him about the perils they would face.  Not only was his future at stake, but the future of everyone he encountered.  There were rules that must be followed, but even more they must trust one another.  Rostaro would be leader, but they were on this quest together.  He was assured that he would have a say in every decision.  So, he decided to exercise that privilege.

“Now, didn’t I promise you I wouldn’t talk with anyone – especially if they looked familiar?” he said wryly smiling up at the looming loremaster.

“Easier said than done, malo-nya,” said Rostaro, looking down at him, vexed.  “You are a very impulsive person.  If we should come across these people you have just dreamed of... “  The loremaster shrugged, heaving a showy sigh.  “Well, you may not be able to help yourself.”  A pointed look with a loose gesture in the wounded Ilcanu’s direction added a further indictment of possible violence.

He rose swiftly and stood toe-to-toe with the loremaster putting on a fierce grin that did not completely hide his real intent.

“Care to wager?” he challenged.  Rostaro had to see the benefit of a bet as a simple incentive that would help him keep his nose on the trail and avoid misbehaving.

“Why yes, I think so,” Rostaro urbanely replied, falling in with him.  “Only because I always lose at gambling.”

“What’s that suppose to mean?” he asked, as usual slightly puzzled by the loremaster’s dry wit.

“That we shall go on,” decided their leader.  “We shall get a royal pass before going into the forest as planned.  Things have gotten a little trickier, is all.” 

“Hurrah!” shouted Ilcanu, imitating his previous exclamation.  He had let Rostaro get by mocking his vocabulary, but he turned a threatening eye on the helper.

“Watch it, urchin,” he coolly cautioned.  The helper smiled, looking naively undaunted.

“Feren, do you think you could go back to speaking Sindarin?” asked Rostaro with a crooked grin.  “The seler does need to know exactly what you are saying.”

Realizing what his friend was pointing out, he barked an astonished shout.  He had been speaking in Nandorin!

All at once as a whole, a wood-elf drinking song came back to him and he began to sing it loud and triumphant in celebration while holding up his arms and dancing a happy jig.  As he held the long note at the end of the verse, he rushed Rostaro, hugging the chagrined loremaster.  Going on with the chorus, he drew Venyel to her feet and swung with the sister several times, leaving her laughing and clapping.  On the long note again, he hoisted the protesting Ilcanu over his shoulder and headed for the stream to toss the helper in, singing the chorus with renewed gusto.

TBC

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Author’s Notes:

All elvish is in Sindarin unless otherwise indicated and underlined means I put it together myself – corrections and comments are welcome!

ellon/elleth – elf male/female

gwanur – kin

urchin – orc child Nandorin

ñolmo – wise person or loremaster Quenya

seler/toron – sister/brother who is not a sibling Quenya

málo-nya – my friend Quenya

mellon – friend

Glaeru! – a minimization of the Music of Iluvatar, Eru’s Lay! – kinda like saying ‘od’s bodkin! ;)