[piosenniel]

Giledhel


‘It’s him . . . again,’ she said with a resigned sigh. There was no one who sat beside her on the wreck of the great oaken bed; its frame crushed save for the carven cluster of oak leaves and acorns that had once graced the top of one of the headboard’s posts. The straw stuffed mattress had long ago disappeared, rats and ravens claiming the scraps for nests of their own.

No one who listened to her complaints . . . yet still she spoke on. ‘Nerdanel’s son. Your friend, Malris . . . you remember. The one who was forever writing poems and songs and such.’ She combed her long pale fingers through the thick dark waves of her hair, pushing it back from her face. ‘He was singing again last night.’ She made a fretful movement with her hands, pushing down the dark material of her dress as it lay along her bodice, pressing out the wrinkles with her palms. ‘He kept me awake again,’ she complained. ‘I shall have dark shadows beneath my eyes from lack of sleep. And then how shall I look for our guests on the morrow?’

Giledhel turned her large, plaintive eyes toward the empty space beside her. ‘Malris? Malris?’ A frown furrowed her brow. ‘Now where has he got off to I wonder?’ With another sigh, she rose and stepped toward the shattered loom across the stone paved room. With a practiced eye she examined the piece she was crafting . . . her fingers traced the fine lettering . . . something for her beloved Malris . . . it bore his name . . . but what had she meant by her choice of words and how had she thought to finish it . . .

It was a puzzle too great for her fragile mind.

She returned to her bed. A bright shaft of sunlight poured over the wrecked walls of the keep. Giledhel turned her pale face toward it, hoping for a warmth that did not come.

~*~

On a pile of crumbling stone blocks that had once been the foundation for the bedroom’s fireplace a raven perched. His bright, acquisitive eyes looked down, hopeful that some bauble or bit of food would fortuitously appear. But there was nothing his dark, eager gaze could find. Weathered wood, twisted and shattered is all he saw. And cold grey, lifeless stone.

In the morning’s breeze a piece of some old, torn weaving fluttered. Weighted down by wood and stone debris, it could not free itself. Frayed edges riffled in the slight currents then lay still again.

By some trick of light, the old bird thought, there seemed the dark figure of a woman moved within it. It startled him as she turned her gaze to his; pale grey eyes looking straight through him. He ruffled his feathers, shaking off that lifeless stare. And with a disapproving croak, took wing . . .