Noldolantë by Dawn Felagund

III. Carnistir

III. Carnistir

He thinks that I don't know he's there.

But I do: right there, under the marble bench and half-hidden behind a potted plant. He does blend into the shadows well with his black hair and dark tunic. Only his glittering eyes give him away. Every time I whirl Vingarië past, I see the spark of light upon dark eyes, spying and staring.

He's been following me all week. At first, I didn't know, and I went about my business like no one was watching: picking my nose and breaking wind without discretion, eating a half-melted chocolate that I found on the kitchen floor (though I first dusted it and removed the piece of Nelyo's hair stuck to it). Receiving a messenger who bore two silver betrothal rings, one of which I intend to present to Vingarië tonight, and taking them often from my pocket when I thought I was alone.

Until this night, Vingarië has been in Alqualondë, finishing another year at the music school, and our only contact has been letters sent by messengers. They must be, I imagine, quite tired by now. We've been composing a song together; the hope (unspoken) is that it will be our wedding song, and our correspondence has been as frequent as the stamina and mounts of our messengers will allow.

I have been humming the song all week, whenever I am alone. I am humming it now, as Vingarië and I circle the courtyard, as I am gathering my courage. I heard Carnistir humming it, as he played alone the other day, stacking blocks and knocking them to the ground again, rocking. Humming. And that was how I knew that he followed me.

He does not hum now. He is as still as the shadows save the sparkle in his eyes. Why does he follow me? I know not. Carnistir has never been much interested in me. His devotion belongs to Nelyo and his mischief to Tyelkormo; he adores Amil and worships Atar. He does not much mind me.

My humming breaks into wordless song, and I hold Vingarië close in my arms. Her voice lifts and twines with mine in the way of two ribbons upon a breeze: lifting and swirling and falling and winding up tangled. We stand motionless in the courtyard, under witness of only the stars and my brother. A hand steals to my pocket and touches the rings. Now is the moment when I must ask …

But keen ears detect from within the house the sound of Atar descending the steps, calling impatiently for me. He will first search the family rooms and then come to the courtyard. My hand slips from the rings, and the song falters.

And from the corner of my eye, I see a shadow dash from beneath the marble bench, half-hidden by a potted plant, silent and invisible to the unsuspecting eye. It is only when the shadow has entered the house--mostly out of earreach of all save Atar--that it begins to wail.

My fingers again brush the rings. Vingarië's and my song rises to its rushing conclusion; her voice buzzes against my mouth as I kiss her lips; we are alone again to sing and love and will be for some time yet, as my brother has willed. The song has ended, but my voice goes on. It has something yet to ask her.