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Malris was not as shocked by Tasareni's refusal as might have been expected. He recalled the first night on the island, when he had been torn between his friends and Maglor's voice...when he had stumpled a few feet up the steep, sharp, mountain path to the ruins of Himring...when Tasa had reproached him so bitterly.
He had almost chosen the Voice in that hour, but Tasa's words had recalled him to the realities of the present. An awful moment.
But now things were different. Things were simpler. No longer two paths, two women and a Lord the Valar knew where. A chamber that had become a prison, an exit out, Tasa alone with him and his Lord, Kanafinwe Makalaure, the son of Curufinwe the Elder, called Feanaro; Maglor, his lord and friend, beckoned him to follow the only way that was left. And Tasa too, whether she trusted him or not.
"Yes," he replied simply; Malris had never wielded words as the Sons of Feanor did, lightly and elegantly, beautifully, and dangerously. He extended his left hand, calloused by the grip he had kept to Cirlach's hilt, and plucked the carrion bird's feather from Tasareni's stream of hair of pale gold.
Malris was short for the males among Elves; Tasareni tall among females. There was little between them, and he scarcely bent as he lightly kissed her cheek, breathing Yes into her toil-wearied mind.
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