Left, right, left, right. He paced along the path, eyes fixed firmly downwards on the grey stone because he did not want to look up and see the sights he saw every day.
Left, right.
Around him, the vendors called; a bus honked noisily at a junction as ten others attempted to ram their way through; a dog barked.
He turned right, into a little yard around a rickety old apartment building. He had lived there for five years now; he might stay for another ten, or he might be off tomorrow, shouldering the few belongings he had to start again somewhere else. Staying in the same city too long was always troublesome – sooner or later, someone would realise that he did not age like they did – it did not always reach a confrontation, but Celeborn could tell when the suspicion began.
In this city, though, in this little neighbourhood – the forty-fifth crossroad of the fourth block of a certain layout in Bangalore, though there were even more descriptors in between that he had not the patience to recall – he was still welcome, smiled at and talked about as some crazy foreigner, and a source of perpetual excitement for the children nearby. He did not even have to use a false name – explaining it away with vague mentions of the indigenous tongues of Northern Europe sufficed, and earned him even more awe. Celeborn was sure there was quite the little legendarium surrounding his name among the folk on the street.
He opened the door, took a deep breath, looked around gloomily at the blistering, peeling paint and the creaking floorboards. He wondered why he still lived like this. It would be so easy to take ship and leave.
But it would be change, and Celeborn was not fond of change, never had been – not since the moon had first risen in darkened skies. It had been a sign of difference, of new and strange happenings, but he had not welcomed it then – and did not now.
He crossed the room with firm steps, placed his shopping-bag on a chair, sat down on another. It creaked alarmingly, and again he wondered why he still sat here like this. It would, after all, be so easy to just go.
He moved to the table; a piece of paper lay invitingly on it. Celeborn answered it – and began to draw, draw a face he knew so well that he did not have to stop and think. Just so – the line of the brow, a wisp of hair straying across the face, a quirk of the eyebrow.
A timid knock on the door disturbed him – sighing, he got up and opened it. It was the young woman who lived next door; barely more than a girl, shy and dark-haired. She appeared a tad intimidated by the very sight of Celeborn, and almost backed away. He looked inquiringly at her, and she proffered a small box wrapped in silver tissue.
"Today is a rather special day for us," she said, a little nervously. "We give these to everyone, and I thought – well..."
"Thank you," Celeborn said kindly, to put her at her ease, and accepted the box. "It was very kind of you."
She smiled and bit her lip; a tendril of dark hair fell into her eyes, and she brushed it out impatiently.
"Would you like to come in for some tea?" Celeborn asked, suddenly, on an impulse. In retrospect, he did not quite know what had come over him.
She nodded, smiled her thanks. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble."
"No trouble," Celeborn said reassuringly, gesturing her to the table. He poked at the kettle, which whistled complainingly.
Turning back, he found her looking respectfully at the sketch on the table. Silently, he berated himself for not putting it away.
"She's beautiful," the girl said, with something of awe in her voice.
"She is my wife," Celeborn said quietly.
"Is she – " the girl began, and then cut herself off sharply, biting her lower lip.
"No," Celeborn answered. "She is alive."
"I'm sorry," she replied, even more ill-at-ease.
"It is all right." Celeborn was not particularly sociable, but it was probably in his best interests not to frighten off all his guests. "She has merely – moved to another country."
"Will you join her?"
The question startled Celeborn – he had not been prepared for it, though he supposed that in retrospect, it was only to be expected.
"I am not sure."
The other rose, flashed him a smile. "Perhaps you should."
The look on his face probably startled her, and she flushed.
"I am sorry. That was intrusive of me."
Celeborn wondered what it was that kept him from going. His ties to Ennor, perhaps? But the world that he had known was scarce seen any more, except at night when the moonlight flooded everything, and one could almost forget the squalor and the masses and the high-rise buildings.
The kettle whistled. Celeborn crossed the tiny room again, and suddenly found himself coming to a decision. His reasons he did not fully understand, but he felt that he was right.
And soon, very soon, he'd meet a beautiful woman on a silver shore.
They'd talk about it.
fin
Notes:
1. This counts as AU, because I don't think Tolkien meant his Elves to be in our world.
2. The flat Celeborn is in really exists. And no, I don't live there, but it's very close to where I do live.
3. Can anyone help me think up a title?
Since this is un-betaed, typos and redundancy may abound. Point them out if you find them, please.
Update: 14/2/05 - Fixed punctuation thanks to Avalon Estel and Still Anonymous (yes, you were helpful, and no, I wasn't irked!).I'm usually good with the dratted things.Apparently, QuickEdit hates me and removed all my full-stops - I checked my Word version and lo! The full stops were there! # QuickEdit.
Also fixed one dubiously worded sentence, again thanks to Still Anonymous. Gyaah! I'm supposed to be a native English speaker, drat it! I should know this stuff!
I forgot to mention with the last update that the box is in fact a box of sweets. We give 'em ut at certain festivals. For some idiotic reason, the fact that not everyone would be familiar with ths silly little custom completely slipped my mind. Call me 'Scatterbrain'.