Shadow of the West

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

He watched as the people of this land gathered for the banquet and turned over in his mind how the day's events had proceeded. It had gone well with the King, but how could it not have done so after he accepted the Ring? He reached into his clothes and found his own Ring, the mate of the one now borne by Faroz and stroked it longingly. It had been several days since he had last worn it, and he found the temptation to slip it on once more almost too much to resist. But he had been noticed already by the lady and she was sure to tell others that he was about. To disappear now would be to call attention to himself. He sighed and closed his eyes, seeking strength from his master for the task ahead. He must cloak himself from their eyes this night, and for many days ahead. For the time, he had to put on a fair appearance.

Girding himself to the task ahead he walked out of the shadows and toward the banqueting hall. As he approached he saw the lady who had accosted him earlier seated at a table with a female Elf. He snarled despite himself and quickly turned away. His master had warned him of the Avarin, for despite their long sundering with their western kindred, they remained of the Elder race.

A cough at his back made him turn round and he came face to face with the Chamberlain. It was clear that the man did not entirely like the Emissary, and that he resented him for having taken the King away from his duties this day. "My King has said that you are to be brought to the party that will be dining at the Queen's table."

The Emissary frowned, saying, "I thought that I was to eat with the King."

"Indeed you are," was the clipped response. "The King is dining with the Queen this night. Come." Before giving the Emissary a chance to respond, the Chamberlain turned and walked toward a small group of finely dressed people who were standing close by the door that the royal family would enter through once all was ready. He ushered the Emissary into their presence, interrupting their conversation and making a series of quick introductions. The Emissary was composed throughout the little ritual, bowing slightly to each of the people in turn. Among the party was another Elf, and he was careful to meet his eye and return his look with steady confidence. Once the introductions had been made the Chamberlain began to officiously organise the party. “The King and Queen are almost ready for the entrance. They have bid me remind you General Morgôs that you and your family,” and at this he looked sidelong toward the female Elf at table with the Lady Arshalous, “are to eat with them at their table, as are you Emissary. The High Priestess Zamara and Priest Tarkan will be seated at the table next to the King and Queen. I do not know where the Prince and Princess shall be eating,” he added somewhat fussily, “for the Queen has said that they might do as they wish this night.” He clearly disapproved of the Queen’s judgement in this matter. “My lords and ladies, I must leave you now, for I must look into the kitchens.” And with that, the Chamberlain was off once more.

[Orofaniel]

Evrathol was not going to judge the Emissary before he had talked to him; that was his decision. Of curse he was going to have an opinion of him, but he wasn’t going to express it to anyone else. He kept those things to himself as he was a respected member of the Royal court. He wouldn’t dare to speak ill or unjust of anyone that were guests of His Majesty himself. Usually, Evrathol never spoke of such things in public, although no one could control his own mind. At the same time, Evrathol felt a need to have a strong opinion about him, because everyone talked about the Emissary – and only him. While looking upon The Emissary, Evrathol could, however, only see a strong character, but nothing more than that. Part of it because the Emissary stayed unchanged; he showed no particular joy for the banquet that had been prepared especially for him, nor did he show any excitement. This was Evrathol’s impression of him.

Studying him a bit closer he could perhaps spot a stubborn creature, with a strong will, but those were only wild guesses.

Feeling utterly ignorant about the stranger he wanted to approach him so that perhaps Evrathol could learn more about him. His legs however would not allow him – or was it his mind that stopped him from doing so? Towards this man he felt unconfident, and weak. How could this be? Evrathol was a confident elf, who had been raised by strong characters. He didn't know why he felt uncertain and uncomfortable with the stranger's presence, but it made him scared. He asked himself why he was doing this to himself, but he found no answer. What was this obnoxious thoughts of his? Why should he, Evrathol, feel uncomfortable in his position? This was completely idiotic. He clenched his teeth, feeling his heart pounding in his chest. His head was spinning as the thoughts of the Emissary would not leave him.

As the Emissary bowed slightly to each guest, he finally turned to Evrathol. A small bow was offered him, and Evrathol greeted him back in suitable manner; “My good lord, it is a pleasure to meet you,” Evrathol offered, as polite as he possibly could be. “Greetings to you as well, my kind elf,” the Emissary said, smiling weakly. Those were the only words exchanged between them before the Emissary moved on to the next guest.

[Imladris]

Arshalous stared at Arlomë and smiled at her. They only had a slight acquaintance but she tended to like the elven woman. Arshalous that it was especially good of her to be part of the queen's retinue considering that the queen came from Alanzia.

"Have you had a chance to speak with the Emissary?" asked Arshalous.

Arlomë shook her head and said, "I have only seen glimpses of him. Have you?"

Arshalous nodded. "He was..." she tried to find the right word. "He had a quiet power in him," she said thoughtfully. "He commands one's respect. It's a pity that our nobles are not more like him," she added bitterly.

Arlomë frowned a little and said, "You think the alliance would be good then?"

"Yes I do," said Arshalous. "We would be very foolish if we did not ally ourselves with them."

Arlomë nodded and then asked with a small laugh, "Why are you sitting in the corner?"

Arshalous narrowed her eyes in irritation and said delicately, "Parties are such annoying things and more than half the people here I do not care for. I would much rather be at home curled on a couch in my library."

"I am sorry," said Arlomë.

"Oh don't be," said Arshalous waving her hand as if she was sweeping Arlomë apology into the dustbin. "It's not your fault that most everyone here is decidedly unpleasant to be converse with."

[Bêthberry]

Bekah listened as her soft leather sandals trod the gravel path. As she neared the King's garden the sense of chill dissipated and she felt safer. Through the vine-entwined corridor which connected her garden with his, she caught sight of Faroz talking with their children. It was a sight she did not often see and in the few moments she took to compose herself she watched them and allowed herself some reminiscences.

Saimak was now a little older than his father had been when she had first seen him, but what a difference. Bekah remembered the confident, even cocky adolescent whose poise and glance had so terrified her, barely into her teens. She had never seen one of the enemy before and there he was standing in front of her, being announced as her intended husband. She had been barely able to meet his eyes and had stood shaking beside him at their wedding ceremony. Yet her prayers had been answered, for he had left with his father immediately after the banquet to return to Pashia. It was two years later she had crossed over the mountains herself with Homay and her bodyguards. It was at another banquet she saw him again, took her place at his side in her gown of glowing amber and cream. He was less contemptuous of her then. He had been a gentle husband to her, firm but not unkind, but she knew he had never loved her as she had never come to love him, despite what her father had told when she had pleaded not to be married to him. She looked at him now to see the young man she had married but saw only the distinguished shades of grey at his temples, the frim jawline which had become firmer, the anxious years in his eyes. She moved quickly towards him.

"My family," she acknowledged, kissing her daughter on both sides of her face--a salutation Gjeela had only recently agreed to renew--and placing her hands on her son's brow. To Fayez she bowed her head and offerred her hand.

"Forgive my tardiness. I stopped in my garden for a few words of prayer for our banquet tonight."

The King took her hand again in the formal salute of husband and wife. The he stopped and stared at her.

"Your final preparations have come to naught."

"Pardon, my lord?"

"The jasmine flowers in your headress have wilted and those in your belt are crushed." He plucked one from her headress and held it before her.

"How came this to happen?"

"I, I know not, my Lord. I came directly from my quarters to my garden to yours. Although in my garden I felt a most unusual air, like the cold air of the mountain snows but so much more frigid."

"You shall do without them this eveing. The guests await us." With his own hands he plucked the other flowers from her headress, feeling them still stiff with cold. Bekah herself removed those from her belt and felt a similar chill. He looked at her eyes, finding belief in her words in the touch of the flowers himself.

"Let us enter, my Lord. Siamak, Gjeela, wil you march in front of us?"

The two nodded despite grimaces.

Fayez then held his right arm out in front of him, his hand facing up. Bekah placed her left hand, palm facing down, in his and together the two marched side by side, their hands recreating the old symbol of the sun's light wrapped over the moon. "Let me meet this visitor who has so many strange stories to tell us," she said aloud.

Then, as they walked together in stately form, Bekah wispered to him.

"My Lord, none of the guards were in my garden. Have they all been called elsewhere? The Emissary is to dine with us, but what of the fifty men or so who arrived with him? Has Morgôs prepared a watch from our guard to accompany them at their own lodgings tonioght?

Faroz halted but momentarily; none would have seen it, but Bekah felt the slight hesitation of motion through his arm. They made their entrance as he was reflecting upon her words.

[alaklondewen]

"It's not your fault that most everyone here is decidedly unpleasant to be converse with." The woman was insulting the elf, and as Arshalous turned her head, Arlomë covered the smile that crept across her face. Of course the comment might have offended many people, and her ease at saying it was probably why the woman was sitting in the corner alone, but the elf was quite comfortable with herself and her conversational ability and, consequently, found the situation amusing.

A short silence fell over the two, and Arlomë looked over the hall once more. Another smile appeared on her delicate elven features when she saw Elrigon near the door and, to her surprise, the Emissary. “I think I shall become acquainted with this mysterious man myself,” the elf spoke suddenly and rose...her abrupt movement causing Arshalous to sit up. “Arshalous, as usual, this has been...interesting. I do hope we can do it again.” The woman did not answer but nodded her head, still scowling.

The Emissary’s back faced Arlomë as she approached. His long hair was not straight like the majority of Pashtian men, rather it fell in dark waves about the shoulders of his black and purple robes. The elf stepped gracefully around the stranger’s body and slipped her arm through her husband’s, smiling up at Elrigon has she stopped. She bowed her head slightly to the priest, and then more deeply to High Priestess, showing her respect to Rhais by doing so. Once the formal greetings were complete, Arlomë turned to the Emissary. She said nothing, but waited for her husband to introduce them, which he did promptly.

“It is a pleasure,” she said as her eyes met his. His gaze was steady as she took her hand in his and bowed to kiss it. “The pleasure is mine, Lady,” his voice was unwavering and confident, and then he placed his lips to her hand. As his lips touched her, a chill ran up her spine and the fine hairs raised on her neck. She pulled her hand away from him and tightened her grip on Elrigon’s arm.

It was this moment a commotion arose from the nearby and the people of Pashtia readied themselved as the Royal family began to enter the great hall. As everyone turned their attention to the King and Queen, Arlomë could not shake the intensely strange feeling that came over her when the Emissary kissed her hand. Glancing from the man to Elrigon, she wondered if she should tell her husband, or if maybe it was all in her head. Whichever, she knew she would keep her eye on this stranger from the West.

[Firefoot]

Siamak felt stiff as a board as he and Gjeelea began the entrance of the royal family. He wanted so dearly to make his father proud of him, to make him see that he was more fit for the throne than his sister. Next to him, she was all ease and grace, and Siamak felt surely he could never do better than that. He kept his head up, with an effort, though it was dreadfully uncomfortable to have all the nobles seemingly staring at him. He knew they were more likely watching his father, but that was not how it felt.

“Presenting His Majesty, King Faroz, ruler of Pashtia.” Siamak recognized the voice of the Chamberlain. “Her Majesty, Queen Bekah, and their children Princess Gjeelea and Prince Siamak.” Siamak felt his ears heating, and hoped that his face was not turning red as well. It was only made worse by his sister’s intimidating presence by his side. There were bows from the men and curtsies from the ladies as they passed, and that helped, at least a little, because it took their eyes off them for a few seconds.

His relief was immense when they finally reached the table of the king. His father sat at the head, as was customary, with his mother at his right. A space was saved for the Emissary at the king’s left, and he joined them shortly. Siamak took the seat beside his mother, honoring the wishes of his father that they sit together this night. Gjeelea sat across from him, beside the Emissary. Siamak was intrigued at his first sight of the Emissary up close. He was nothing but courteous, and there was an air of power and nobility about him. Siamak still felt wary of him, though as before he could see no reason for it. There was no reason to suspect him of malice and treachery. It confused Siamak immensely.

The few remaining places at the table were quickly filled by three Avari, who Siamak recognized readily: the General, Morgôs; his wife, Arlomë; and their son, Evrathol. He was good at remembering faces and names, and prided himself on it. He tried to recall whether he had heard that they would be dining with them, and wondered if he should not have let them have the seats closer to the king, since they were the guests. It was too late now, he supposed. Morgôs occupied the seat next to him, and Siamak greeted him saying, “Good evening to you, General Morgôs.” Siamak had never actually met the general except on formal occasions, but had found him to be pleasant: not so petty and conniving as many of the nobles were.

“And to you, Prince Siamak,” Morgôs responded politely. Siamak wasn’t exactly what to say next, but he was saved by the servants who had quickly brought out a multitude of platters holding all the finest meats and tasty sides. Siamak’s mouth watered at the scent. A glance around the banquet hall showed that the remainder of the people had seated themselves, and all were waiting for the signal that they could begin to eat.

[Bêthberry]

Bekah was pleased that the banquet did justice to the King's stature and to the skill and talent of the palace servants. The cedar and myrrh were burning in the tall standards. The food was arrayed splendidly and spoke of the variety of fleshes, both of meat and of plant, which Pashtia had to prepare. Bekah made a note to remember to commend them tomorrow, after a public acknowledgement here before the music and entertainments began.

She had watched the Emissary partake of his first eastern feast. After the polite address of bowing to her when Faroz introduced her, he had not paid her much attention, but focussed upon the King for aid in learning the various foods and manners of eating, which Faroz had been eager to give. Flat bread he had never seen, nor the variety of sweet and savory sauces in which to dip it. He was a skilled conversationalist, she saw, for he used the food as a topic of conversation, adroitly avoiding any discussion of his country or his Lord's purpose, addressing Morgòs about ancient avari breads and Faroz about the minced meat and spices wrapped in vine leaves. Fresh figs he had never seen.

"Your Majesty," he had said, "what might I expect from this delicacy? And how shall I eat it?"

The King had laughed and picked up a large fig from the platter. "You must first cut it just so," demonstrating with his knife how to make two crossed slashes. "Then, you must hold the thick skin apart and sink your teeth into the soft mushy flesh. Here." And before anyone could demonstrate how to do that, Faroz held the fig up the Emissary's mouth and bid him bite in. Bekah did not know if she should be shocked at the familiarity or applaud Faroz's skill in attempting to see if he could throw the Emissary off his calm demeanour. As a ruse, it had not worked, for the Emissary had merely taken a courteous bite, laughed, and wiped the sweet sticky juice from his chin with his fingers.

"And it is appropriate to lick them?" he had asked her, one of the rare times he had shown her any notice. Bekah had merely bowed her head in acknowledgement, her cordial set smile taking the place of words. He barely noticed her; not once did their eyes meet. Was he avoiding her? she wondered.

She sat back against the cushions which were nestled around the low table and spoke with her son. He was shy, but when spoken to he warmed to the conversation. He is a good boy, she thought to herself. He needs some kind of project which interests him where he can demonstrate his skills to his father. She looked around the room for their daughter, but in the rapid movement of servants and the bustle of voices she could not make out Gjeela. She caught the glances of the High Priestess and Priest, however, and realised that they soon should be introduced to the Emissary.

For the time being, however, she spoke a few words with Alomë, who had been so responsible in helping her overcome her fear of the avari. Public fear, that is to say. In her heart Bekah still found the elven longevity and superiority frightening and often wondering how they could stand the weakness and foibles of the lesser-lived men with whom they lived here in Pashia. When she looked back at her husband and the Emissary, she saw them engaged in a merry, light-hearted conversation into which they were attempting to draw Morgòs. Except for his rudeness in avoiding her directly, he was a charming man, Bekah realised. And her husband looked younger and happier, caught in the rapport of eager talk rather than formal manners. Yet she would never have survived in Pashtia without those manners.

[Novnarwen]

His own words roamed furiously around inside of his head. What in the almighty Rea's name had he been thinking? The moment he had seen Korak, he should have left the 'merry' company, containing Zamara, the elf and himself. He should have excused himself, and left, before that rude scoundrel had approached him and called him 'Priest'. It was his real title true enough, but the elf didn't know that. Or at least, he hadn't, before that twit had managed to ruin it all.

"Lord, Korak, what a pleasure. I'm sorry, but I think I'll have to see you by and by, as the King and the Queen have just been announced, and I am anxious to get to know this Emissary!"

How stupid was that; a pleasure to meet Korak? Such men as Korak were never a pleasure to meet. Korak had without a doubt humiliated him in front of the Elf! It was outrageous! It was absolutely devastating! The thought of him being the possible future King made the Priest want to curse loudly. As a Priest though, it was his duty not to forfeit the good opinion of others, and therefore Tarkan restrained himself for doing anything not suitable. Holding his head high, he decided not to lose his self control. He would deal with this Noble man later, if it was the last thing he did. Due to the latest events, the meeting with Korak, Tarkan didn't dare look at Zamara, who was currently sitting next to him; not after what had just happened. She was probably having the time of her life, enjoying it. She would probably take advantage of it as soon as possible, but he would be prepared. A woman would not break him. Instead of looking her way, he let his gaze wander cautiously. He recognized half the party that was gathered here, but few had he actually talked to.

The male priest sat uneasily on a soft cushion, cross-legged. He tried paying attention to conversations that were taking place in the room, as he kept still himself; he didn't really have anyone to talk to. At the time none here, except the King and the Emissary interested him. He caught a word now and then, sometimes sentences coming from the various tables surrounding him. Some whispered, meanwhile other talked loudly; some giggled to themselves, others shared their laughter with everyone. Everything was just a blur; it was downright annoying. The Priest would have gone crazy, if he hadn't realised that it was probably best to focus on someone, and not the whole room at once. He tried focusing on the conversation that was probably the most interesting yet. Glancing over at the King's table, which was just in front of him, he discovered that Faroz was busy teaching the stranger how to eat. By this, the Priest was fairly surprised. The stranger, he realised now, was not at all as he had imagined. He could not quite explain what it was, but there was something unusual about him. Unusual is probably not the best word for it, the priest thought to himself, studying every movement the stranger made; 'rare', is probably the best way to describe him. The feeling of interest and eagerness to get to know this man, this Emissary, rose violently from his chest. In his eagerness, he grew quite forgetful of the recent events, and suddenly he found himself asking the High Priestess how she thought the Stranger appeared.

"I shall see when I talk to him. For now, I will observe," she answered. By the look of her, she was just as eager to follow the man with her piercing eyes as he was. Agreeing with her, he gave a faint smile, as if thanking her for her honest answer.