Setting: Harlindon, early Second Age

Mithlond: Market

Elves come to buy everything here! Sturdy, canopied stalls, built into the street, are crowded with goods during the day, and strung with lanterns at night. Silks flutter, flowers bloom, bells jingle, and merchants cry their wares. The smell of freshly cooked fish tempts...

An unsurpassed concentration of children and doves wanders through the market.

The evening tide roars beneath the basalt cliffs holding Lindon apart from the Sea. A quarter moon wanders the sky.

Lamps are strung between the booths of the market, each stall a temptation and delight. Wool and silk, nets and stylish straw hats, skewers of fish and buckets of clams - all these are to be found, should one care to browse. The Sindar are here, as are the Noldor, and the occasional Man, in town awaiting a ship to the Land of Gift, so recently gifted.

A brown-haired elf with emeralds in his braids, otherwise dressed soberly and for travel, browses a rack of bows.

Head tilted back so that her dark hair brushes the backs of her calves, an elven woman, eyes closed in pleasure, holds a clam in the palm of her hand up to her mouth. The clam seller watches with his shucking knife ready to slide into a another clam on her signal. Brushing the juice from her lips, she smiles and nods. "That was lovely! Yes, another."

Narthalion stands with a woman at another market stand; the stand is laden with various sorts of cloth. The woman is engaged in active discussion with a merchant over one of those pieces of cloth. She speaks quietly, but her expression indicates displeasure.

Narthalion's expression indicates nothing at all. He very slightly tilts his head in her direction, netted rubies flashing in the light. A farewell, a roll of the eyes, a dismissal: it is difficult to say. He is dressed simply, all in dark grey, save for a red belt. Only his boots and gauntlets remain of his more usual armour. Thus he approaches Naerchil more silently than usual.

"If Elvain is to be believed, one had rather have something made bespoke than..." he flicks his fingers in the direction of the bows, mithril flashing. "Are the bows to standard, at least?"

The brown-haired elf's eyes wander over to the next stall, where a clam seller has just made a successful sale. He considers the buckets meaningfully, then takes a step in that direction...

Then, a voice offering advice at his shoulder. Naerchil tilts his head just a touch. "I should hope so," he answers tactfully, turning. His eyes widen in surprise, but his voice remains even.

"Heru Istelmarta?" Naerchil asks, slightly disbelieving. Compared to Narthalion, he wears his emeralds like a child might wear his father's shirt. "I had seen one of your retainers in the square, but I had not expected you would stay here." He is about to say something else, but remembers he is in the middle of a market, with clams and wool and bows all about.

The clam shucker, a Second Born man, watches the elven woman with a bemused expression and a venal smile. Elves bring business which interests him more at the moment than her slender grace or her height or the sapphires winking in the braids on either side of her face. She finishes her second clam with a satisfied nod. "It has been too long since I have had those. They are like sipping the sea on a brisk morning. One more, please." She delicately fishes a handkerchief from her sleeve to wipe her hand and looks out into the market while she waits. She pushes back her cloak, the blue of an evening sky at the first star's appearance, from under which her silver grey gown irredesces. Next to her, a meeting between two friends, perhaps? She idly watchs them until the shucker clears his throat to get her attention.

Narthalion looks down at the erstwhile child. One dark brow is arched, and the corners of his mouth form a faint frown. His face is harsher than it was, and brighter, too, as though some more decorative layers have been stripped away.

"And where did you think I would go?" The frown takes on a wry edge. "Say, rather, you did not think I would be alive to choose." He regards Naerchil for some while in silence, not caring a whit that they are in the midst of a market. "He would have been pleased to find you here," he says at last. The 'he' is clarified: one slender finger, barely touching, sets one of Naerchil's plaits to swaying.

"I cannot abide this city. I wonder that you can abide any city at all."

Elwen is walking through the market, looking about her. As she walks, she is pulling off the sash marking her as one of Gil-galad's counsellors, but her duty is done for the now, and she has time for herself. There is a little cottage she has for herself when she has the time, a tiny place up the hill, surrounded by grasses and wildflowers. She pauses near a stall selling shoes, and glances down at her feet hidden by her long skirts.

Naerchil stands very still, for an erstwhile. Less than five hundred years is still a child, says those who have survived five hundred years beneath the Sun. He bears Narthalion's scrutiny without complaint, though the one green stone, flashing, is reflected brightly in his eyes.

"You must think me presumptuous, Heru," he murmurs, swallowing his voice.

Of the city, thus judged, he says, "I was in the Enedwaith this season."

A tall, silver-haired elf stands not far away, scrutinizing a map. "Here?" he says, lifting his eyes to meet his golden lady. She considers, thoughts and eyes distant, then nods and smiles brilliantly. "There."

"Everywhere," the golden lady answers. Mirthful, but unwilling to accept a limit or bound.

"Must I? You would be a fool not to think it. There is room enough in the graves beneath the sea for one or two more." His sudden, grasping grief is elided into a curling lip.

"You must show me this Enedwaith. I am not the only one discontented here. But Celebrimbor is not his father: he will not move unless he knows whither." His sigh is faint, though it sits neatly with the tension bound in his form.

Wengilriel balances the clam in her hand and frowns. The clam seller concerned, eyes the clam worried that there is something off, he examines his shucking knife for mud. The clam claims or should claim her whole attention but there is a look to the younger elf that gives her pause. The elf that speaks to him...twice her eyes go to his face. The third time tells the tale and one corner of her mouth quirks in memory of a sardonic voice. She tips the clam to her mouth and swallows.

Celeborn smiles equally brilliantly, rejoicing, no doubt, that she chose to stay. "Everywhere," he agrees. "But here first." He folds the map away.

"Well, it's about high time, yes," Elwen says to herself, and then moves to the cobbler. Yes, the shoemaker is an elf. And the Lady inclines her head and smiles, betweixt and between clam-seller and Feanorians, and she sits down upon the cobbler's bench. Drawing back her skirts, she exposes one leg to mid-calf, showing a small, delicate foot encased in heavy, tattered travelling-shoes that are worn enough through in places that her toes and the bottom of her feet show through. "I would like a suitable pair. No.... two, even," she says. "A pair fit for my duties and a pair fit fot riding or climbing rocks. Likght, though, not heavy boots..."

"Then I shall choose where second," the lady says, eyes alight with mischief. "We shall make another map when reach your 'here'."

She turns suddenly, golden waves and braids fluttering about her shoulders. "Lady Elwen! Do you choose boots to make the journey? We go east." There is a look in her eyes that suggests she teases, or plays, and knows full well that Elwen will not gladly leave Gil-Galad's side.

"Then, all of them..." Naerchil looks down, his gaze wavering and threatening to blur into tears.

"Oh," he murmurs in an older language, scarcely practiced, "I am glad to have found you."

He straightens. "It is forest through and through, from the coast to the hills. I came to buy Eilian a stave. From Numenore, she says."

Narthalion watches the tears threaten, their careful restraint. He ignores them and Naerchil's question together.

Yet he slips easily into that elder language, laughter edging the words, framed by lips that do not smile. "And here I thought it was I that had found you."

"What wants Eilian with a stave? Has she then taken up the ways of the Laiquendi? I had hoped for better for her." In what way Eilian has fallen short of his hope he does not say. "So it is to be bows and staves in the woods. The spectre of Doriath rises again, it seems."

The tears. In a quick movement she pays for the clams consumed and two quick steps place her closer to the younger and the older elves.

 "Nargothrond," she says to the two without preamble. "You are no longer covered in blood, it suits you better - no blood," she addresses the elf with the red sash. She curtsies deeply, gracefully but does not excuse herself.

"We are in accord," Celeborn replies, a smile crinkling around his eyes. "Now we must consider when." A word catches his ear, and something moves in his face, quickly surpressed. Doriath. The beloved, the fair - now obliterated, with so much else, from the face of the earth. "Axes," he says beneath his breath. "Bows and staves and axes..."

Narthalion does not turn; indeed, he lifts his chin, casting his eyes in shadow beneath his lashes. "Bloodier far than in Nargothrond. You do no more than praise a clean tunic." He remains moveless, his ire tightly leashed and bound. A slight cant of his head, his gaze following, back to Naerchil. "Narelinta did well to send you away."

"My feet will wander far, my Lady Galadriel," answers Elwen, laughing. Yet there is something wistful in her laugh. "I have duty though, and I have bound myself to that. But when I have time to travel, I am.... seeking." She flushes a moment, then shakes herself. "But that will come when it may. For the now, oaths hold me. None so perilous... but ones I am yet loathe to break." She frowns then, even as the cobbler starts to measure her rather abused feet. "A new age, and new hope. Perhaps t'were best not to mention blood spilled in Nargothrond."

Galadriel looks unblinking at Elwen, and she smiles. "You will find the one you seek, whether you keep your duty or break it. Better kept, perhaps," she adds, nose wrinkling. Half-heard are words of blood and axes. She reaches back, a slender bare arm and a hand seeking for Celeborn's. "Then let us not speak of it. I would speak rather of your poor feet. Even in Valinor I remember them well-used. See, my lord, this is why I praise good shoes."

"And yet that day was bloody." She casts a cool look at the woman but nods acknowledging her words. 

"Now, I will pray that you excuse my effrontery. It is just that I believe that I saw you there," she inclines her head to the younger of the two.

"She wants ..." says Naerchil, but the conversation is quickly slipping away. He looks at Narthalion, as if there are words he is unwilling to say at this time.

He moves forward a little, half a step in front of Narthalion. "Do I remember you?" he asks politely. "I am Naerchil, Naerchil of Narelinta."

"Nargothrond," Celeborn says bitterly. "What of blood shed elsewhere? Is it of no value, worth no mention? Are only Noldor deaths accounted of merit?" Galadriel's hand touches his and he stops, bowing stiffly to Elwen. "Surely, you shall speak of shoes." He turns in a whirl of cloth and stalks down the street away from the sea, away from this conversation, if t'were possible, away from memory itself.

"And yet many days were bloody, and many ill deeds were done. And many good deeds, too." Elwen shakes her head, then looks up at Celeborn. "Many the deaths in Mithrim and Nargothrond and Menegroth, in Doriath, in the Falas, in Alqualonde...." Elwen shudders. "Friends, kin, oh, dear people, Telerin, Noldorin, Sindarin.... No, Lord Celeborn, all the blood spilt. It all matters, it is all grief. I hold no lives higher than others. But I would rather speak of healing, of friendship, of peace." She sighs, then looks down. "If I have offended for trying to keep the peace, such was not my intent."

"I did not know your name that day. We were...occupied but I saw you pass with your sister?" Something darkens Wengilriel's eyes as she speaks, "I am Wengilriel of the Aerdereth. Well met, Naerchil of Narelinta."."

Turning to look back at the woman who addressed her, "Nay, none taken. I, perhaps, should have chosen my words...differently. Do not concern yourself."

Narthalion closes his eyes, an acknowledgement of Naerchil's desired delay. When he opens them again it is to regard the wares on the stall opposite. He ceases to concern himself with the conversation.

"The peace might be better served by not speaking of blood and death at all. Yet you will all prattle on." Elvain appears, tall and straight and still, at Narthalion's shoulder. Naerchil is given the same tested look that Elwen and Wengilriel receive, whether deserved or not. "Eilian lives, then?"

"Yes, Lady Wengilriel," says Naerchil. "I remember."

"Lady Elvain," he turns, smiling. "My sister lives and we are well." Searching for a happier topic per prompting, he adds, "We are raising horses again, those that were left of my mother's line. Swift and strong, with a predilection for gray."

"As I remember the Lady Elvain," Wengilriel inclines her head to the woman, unsmiling. "And where do you raise them, Naerchil? I have need of a new mount." 

One lift of her slender shoulder and she has dismissed the bloody warrior of Nargothrond for the moment.

Elwen just raises her eyes skyward with a long-suffering expression, then closes them. Only a repeated comment from the shoemaker rouses her, and she shakes herself again. "Ice does that. It is no matter. Shoes, aye." Then she lifts her head at the mention of horses. "If it would be of any use," she says gently to Naerchil, "My mare is Valinorian stock and I am willing should you wish to include her in your lines. She is the dun-gold mare with the white mane and tail."

"They are still young, and I am still attempting to establish the blood," says Naerchil, bowing. "When they have run their share of the forest and field, I will tell you, Lady." This addressed to both Elwen and Wengilriel.

"Well, and well met," Elvain answers, holding out her ruby-girt hands to Naerchil. Yet it is for what he says after that she smiles. "Her gifts remain with us, then. I do not know if I am better pleased at that, or that you remember her. I would see your horses, if I may."

Elvain's movement has recalled Narthalion's attention. He listens, saying nothing.

It is for Elvain to arch her brows, her smile vanishing. "Lady Wengilriel is bolder than I remember. I wonder if you trouble Celebrimbor when you need a new gem. Such horses were gifted from king to king, once. Are they to be presents to needy healers, now?" She glances sidelong at Naerchil, though whether it is to acknowledge what he has said or to rebuke him for it is hard to say.

Something, or perhaps the whole thing together, makes Narthalion smile.

"Her pedigree is one thing I *do* have," answers Elwen. "If you should wish to see it. And if it is something that would please you, I should not demand an unreasonable price. Fine netted gems for my hair, and one colt once the line is established. I know they are young, but it is not too early to offer." She glances at Elvain, then over at Narthalion. Finally she looks to Wengilriel, as if trying to place her.

"That would be kind of you," Wengilriel inclines her head to Naerchil.

"Your golden horse sounds very attractive. I am serious about the enquiry so I should perhaps address it to you, Lady" thanking her with a nod.

A smile hovers on her lips at Elvain's words, "Do you remember me meek, Lady? I remember you as kinder. Perhaps I was merely occupied with the 'gifts' of war, which we will not mention further. As for gifting me a horse? I think not. But how kind of you to remember me so fondly," she says, her words soft.

"I cannot say they are the warhorses that once ran across Himlad," says Naerchil. "And yet ... they are as my children, for now. You give me too much. Yet if it pleases you to see the young ones run, perhaps we may all visit where they are kept in Enedwaith. When the season turns."

Naerchil's lips tighten, and his eyes flash to the side, seeking advice from clams.

Elvain shakes her head at this, "I remember you with no fondness, nor do I mean to be kind. But I suppose my saying so will be interpreted as generous forthrightness. Truly, I would prefer a little more agression or a great deal more passivity. We seem to have lighted on something sadly between the two."

"Be wary, Lady Elwen!" She raises a finger to her lips. "She enquires seriously. I think it is your horse she wants now." Her lips figure a grin behind her finger.

Narthalion looks from one to the next as they speak. He looks at Naerchil with something humorously akin to pity. "Not the clams," he tuts, quietly. "My lord will be interested to see you again. At this very moment, I am sure. Immediately."

"I offer my mare for breeding," answers Elwen to Wengilriel, "Not for sale. So I am not sure as how to answer your enquiry. If you could offer a horse for stud worthy of her line, you would not.... need a horse, would you?" She glances over at Elvain and her lips twitch. But her eyes are drawn towards the mollusc. "It shells out much wisdom, mrmmm?"

"I seek to do nothing to pleasure you, Lady. Generosity would be wide of the mark of your character, but do not stretch yourself, it might teach you something more than overweening pride," she says levelly.

"Yes, young one. The clams. They are the ocean captured in two shells. I apologize to you for the asperity of the occasion and should like to see your horses simply for their beauty."

"Then I shall look elsewhere, Lady. Your mare must be a great wonder, forgive my mistake."

Her gaze wanders over Narthalion and her lips quirk as though to say how richly he deserves his wife.

Straight-backed, Naerchil says quietly to the ladies, "At the turn of the season. I will return to Lindon at the Summer Festival, and we shall go then."

"What does your lord require?" the younger Narelinta asks of Narthalion, bowing and stepping away.

Narthalion turns to follow, offering nothing but half a hand press on Elvain's elbow in farewell. He gives Naerchil a look, torn between consternation and amusement, and does not answer.