Wanderer

18 - Too Good

Elwing

The winter is slowly wearing on. The heavy cloaks have come out of storage. Snow covers the ground, blankets the trees. The world is almost unrecognizable. Only the ocean is constant, shifting but always remaining the same.

 Something at the council has changed Ëarendil. I can’t explain it. If I weren’t looking, then I wouldn’t find it. Even now I hardly know where to look.

It began the morning after Ëarendil came home. When Ëarendil told me that Erenion had decided to fight, I cried. I told him that there was no chance of winning, so why give up in such a blatant way?

Then Ëarendil held me close and murmured to me that Erenion was going to win, and that he believed it as well.

“And furthermore, I’m not a part of it.” Ëarendil said, then corrected himself. “I’m not fighting.”

 “Are you sure? Did you talk Erenion out of it?”

 “Something like that. Erenion has a much smaller part for me to play.” And so he claims that the late-night sessions that ensued hunched over spidery drawings and crackling books were the reason.

 Ëarendil doesn’t act like a man spared from war, though. Outwardly, he’s the same, but if you look closely, there are certain mannerisms he’s adopted, certain oddities I have never seen before. He rubs his palms together as if he were cold when he’s deep in thought. He touches my face to end every conversation. He comes home from Arvernien with twice the amount of food we usually get. And most of all, he avoids Alaytar.

 Alaytar doesn’t offer insight. He claims that he can’t, but I know him better than that, and Alaytar can offer insight on anything, from swords to teenageed girls.

My gut tells me that something went wrong at that council, something horribly wrong, or at least not as expected.

Whatever went on there, Ëarendil is not telling me.