To Give and Receive by Narya

To Give And Receive

The hot water was missing when Carnistir woke.

Odd. Very unlike Lastamo.

He stretched, rose, and began to dress himself, disinclined to make a fuss. No doubt there was a good explanation – and it wasn't as though anyone brought him a basin of steaming water each morning when he went roaming the woods and mountains, or when he took young Arakáno sailing. Besides, he would no doubt get himself hot and dusty on the journey back to the summer house. There would be time for a good long soak when he got there.

It was almost time to leave when a nervous knock-knock sounded against his door.

“Come in, Lastamo,” he called.

His butler was a quiet, unobtrusive sort of man. He kept Carnistir's Tirion apartments beautifully clean, saw to his needs with delicate efficiency, and possessed a peculiar knack of knowing when his lord would be in the city even if no notice was sent – all without ever drawing any attention to himself. Today, however, Lastamo looked as though he would not so much like to blend into the background as disappear altogether.

“My lord, forgive me...”

Carnistir held up a hand. Lastamo's distress was plain, and would have been so without ósanwë. He suspected, too, that it had nothing to do with being late. “What is the matter?”

“My youngest daughter, Lassecanta – she slipped off a roof, my lord; her leg is broken...”

He crossed the room and gripped his butler by the shoulder. “Go home, my friend. See to your family.”

“My lord - ”

“I insist.”

Before he left Tirion he made a few discreet enquiries about the family, the injured child, and her favoured pastimes. Discovering that she enjoyed yarnwork, he arranged for a fine selection of skeins to be sent to her house – whisper-thin silks; tightly curled ribbons; cotton and wool, all in deep jewel hues and glittering metallics and soft, pale shades like the dawn.

From a well-wisher, he signed the gift. Lastamo, he suspected, would guess who had sent it, but that could hardly be helped.

It was some months before he returned to the city. When he arrived Lastamo was waiting for him in the hall, despite the late hour.

“I could have seen to myself,” Carnistir smiled. “There was no need to put on a reception.”

Lastamo swallowed. “Forgive me, my lord; I'm afraid this is terribly presumptuous...” He held out a soft, square bundle, neatly wrapped in simple cloth. “A gift for you, from my daughter.”

Surprised, Carnistir took the package and folded back one corner. Inside was an exquisitely crafted, many-coloured throw, in an intricate design of shining stars and sharp-angled leaves. Carnistir ran his fingers over it, marvelling. He recognised many of the yarns – he had an eye for such things, and had chosen them himself – but the textures and shades played together in startling, unexpected ways, and the patterns were quite unique. “This is all her own work?”

“Yes, my lord.” A note of pride there, and an unusual defiance. “I know that you can buy whatever might please you, but she insisted on my bringing it, and I couldn't tell her no.”

“Of course not.” Carnistir looked up, troubled that Lastamo had feared he might scorn or reject the child's gift. “Please thank her for me – or better yet, bring her with you tomorrow. I will thank her in person.”

“There's no need -” Lastamo stopped at Carnistir's raised eyebrow. “Very good, my lord.”

“Is she well again?”

“Quite well.” Lastamo smiled a little. “And causing no end of mischief.”

“I don't doubt it.” Carefully, Carnistir folded the covering back over the throw, deciding that he would place it on his bed once he had washed and unpacked. “I will treasure this, Lastamo. And you may tell your daughter that as soon as she is old enough, there will be an apprenticeship for her in the Weavers' Guild – if she should wish to take it up.”

“Really, my lord?”

“Yes.” Carnistir returned his butler's widening smile. “I will write the letter of recommendation myself.”