Shadow of the West

[Novnarwen]

“Father, Tarkan?”

Almost startled by being interrupted, he eyed Pelin coming towards him. There he is. Like a servant he runs my errands, like poultry he obeys me and as far as his curiosity goes, he’s like a child… Inside, the Priest was laughing wildly, madly in love with the idea of having Pelin act more as a disciple than a fellow brother in faith. Pelin had been nothing but kind and gentle towards the Priest and ever since they had met, Pelin had been admiring the Priest more than the King himself. He had been fully devoted to the Priest, who had treated him with strictness, but also a form of respect. Yet, the priest, too self obsessed, did not have any feelings for someone who was weak, someone like Pelin. Poor Pelin; if it was up to the priest, Pelin would never know his own part in this play, not before it would be too late.

Smiling faintly, (whether it was of a mocking character or if it was sincere, it was difficult to tell,) the Priest came to meet him. “What took you so long?” he asked the young man, being unexpectedly strict. Narrowing his eyes, he tried reading the man’s thoughts. Was he already obsessed with the book and the letter? Was he to wait a bit more before he did something; let Pelin get even more curious? With wrinkled brows, Tarkan cast a simple look at the wheelbarrow which Pelin had brought with him containing all of Tarkan’s belongings, trying to avoid eye contact. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a figure moving. As a woman took a step forward, the Priest instantly recognized her as the Princess Gjeelea. Seeing her, he was stricken with a numbness he barely knew existed.

“Princess,” Tarkan muttered and bowed in respect. “How can I help you, my lady?” he asked politely, being insecure, feeling his cheeks getting redder and redder. All he could think of now, embarrassed by the situation he found himself in, was how he were to make Pelin’s life miserable after this. Pelin should have known that this was not the time do make arrangements with the Royal family. He frowned, looking at the Princess, thinking. Had she come on her own initiative maybe?

[Under construction. Only to extend paragraphs, not to go further in events.]

[alaklondewen]

“Why do you ask questions to which you already know the answers?”

Arlomë pulled back from the General’s embrace and looked up, searchingly, into his face. His graceful features were pale and lined with weariness. Her long slender hand rose and gently touched his cheek, tracing the shape of his cheekbone with her thumb. “Hope,” she said simply to answer his question, and then let her hand drop. As she turned from Elrigon to move closer to his desk, he repeated the word, dripping with sarcasm. Silence settled over the couple once more, and Arlomë let her eyes roam over the length of Morgôs’ desk. He had not left any of his work uncovered, but had quickly stashed his documents when she called him a few minutes ago. She slowly touched the hardwood, then lifted her fingertips and examined the dust which had transferred to her pale skin. Then she quickly rubbed them together and broke the long silence. “When this first began, Elrigon, I thought it was simply a phase that would shortly disappear.” She paused, gathering her thoughts. She could feel Morgôs turn his eyes upon her, but she continued to look at the desk. “As the years passed, I continued to hope that this interest would pass.” Arlomë waved her arm over the desk and toward the surrounding shelves. “Now, each time you let...whatever this is...consume you...” She stopped, taking a breath, then turned toward her husband again. Her eyes flashed with fury. “I can see what this does to you. I ask...and will never stop asking, Elrigon, because I will not give up hope that one day you will surprise me.”

“I have sworn to you that I will not venture here. What else can I do?” The sarcasm had left the General’s voice, and it seem to Arlomë that he was apologetic.

“You swore only to let these pages go for a time. I would wish for you to leave them forever.” Arlomë held his gaze steady, but Morgôs looked away, staring vaguely toward his shelves. “I cannot promise you that,” his voice was low, yet sincere. He held himself straight, but Arlomë could still see the weariness in his limbs from not being used. She hated seeing him like this, and so she answered, “Then I cannot promise to leave you with it in peace.”

“You do not understand...” The General began again, turning his grey eyes on his wife, but she did not allow him to continue. “You are right,” she said softly. “I do not understand. You say this eases your mind, yet it seems to me it places a greater strain on your mind than the other things in your life. Maybe if I could understand.” Arlomë leaned on the desk and scanned it, before reaching for the great tome that took so much of her husband’s time and sliding it across the desk toward her. “May I see?”

[Firefoot]

Being free of any meetings or responsibilities during this morning, Siamak had decided to take a walk about the city, despite the gathering clouds typical of the season. Making himself better known in the city had actually been one of the General's 'words of advice' to ousting his sister in achieving the throne of Pashtia one day. Morgôs had visited the palace fairly regularly in the past month, though not in the past few days, and the lessons had always been interesting. Morgôs was an interesting teacher and Siamak was quick to understand, though putting some of the things into practice had been more difficult, at least at first. Slowly, he had begun asserting himself more politically and socially, though he still had a long way to go.

This growing boldness was one contributing factor to the lack of decision between himself and Gjeelea concerning the emissary. He knew they would have to decide something soon, but instead of gaining progress most of their meetings seemed to have the opposite effect. For himself, he still wasn't sure whether or not accepting would be a good idea, and he was fairly confident that Gjeelea was in the same situatiion of indecision. Instead of working toward that end, however, they tended to end up arguing over it, and usually she won. It achieved nothing however, and it was almost as if they had reached a decision not to decide. Siamak supposed that once he had made his own decision (and she hers) it would go better. He wished he knew who he could trust to ask for advice. He had toyed with the idea of asking the General for quite some time, but he had never brought up the topic for fear of invoking another episode such as the one which had occurred more than a month ago now.

Walking past the construction site of the new temple, it occurred to him that he had not talked to the High Priestess since the night of the banquet. She had seemed fairly trustworthy, and perceptive at that. She also had a much closer connection with Rhais than he was comfortable with, but surely the gods should be consulted in this decision? Maybe she would have some words of wisdom for him. With that in mind he changed his course to head for the temple of Rhais. It occurred to him that he might talk to the Priest Tarkan as well, but he quickly dismissed the idea. He had met the man only briefly, and had no desire to seek out such a meeting again. There was something about him, nothing tangible, that Siamak did not like. He made the impression of knowing something (a little too much?), combined with the fact that he was a Priest. His discomfort with a close connection to the gods was one idiosyncracy that Siamak would likely never overcome.

Siamak reached the temple shortly and hesitated for only the barest moment before entering. His eyes soon adjusted to the dim light and he made out the figure of the High Priestess standing near the large statue of Rhais. Though her back was to him, she appeared thoughtful by her stance, and Siamak wondered if it might be a bad time. He wasn't quite sure what kind of meditating the Priestess did to talk with Rhais, nor had he ever inquired. He was here now, though, and he spoke up softly, though his voice carried in the empty space. "High Priestess?"

She turned and smiled. "Good morning, Prince Siamak," she greeted. "Have you come to worship?" Siamak supposed that they had to ask that question, and so he didn't feel bad to deny it.

"Not exactly," he answered. "The truth is, I had hoped to talk to you. If you're not busy, that is." Her expression let him know that she was listening, and he continued. "It's about the Emissary. My sister and I are having some trouble reaching a consensus, and I remembered our conversation at the banquet a while ago..." He looked for confirmation that she recalled it.

She nodded, "I remember."

"The point is," said Siamak, "I was wondering if the Goddess has imparted you with any wisdom concerning our decision. I seek your advice." Though the concept of such divine intervention was uncomfortable to him, it was the honest truth, and he trusted Zamara with such spiritual matters. If anyone could give him this answer, it would be her.