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Chapter 4.
Never talk to friends.
Now here, now there, the roving Fancy flies,
Till some lov'd object strikes her wand'ring eyes,
Whose silken fetters all the senses bind,
And soft captivity involves the mind.
Imagination! who can sing thy force?
Or who describe the swiftness of thy course?
- Phillis Wheatley
"Haldir? Lord Haldir gave it to you?"
Aerwain nodded, reclining leisurely against a mallorn trunk, her bare feet splashing in the warm gray water. Gwilwileth turned the brooch upside down and studied the clasp so carefully as if she could read her future on it.
"He has a taste," admitted she at last, "Of course, it's just silver, but…"
"Gwilwileth, please! What would you think he must give me? Mithril?"
The honeyed hair of Gwilwileth drew a golden aureole around her face as she shook her head. Aerwain watched her with a feeling she saw a moving and talking figure of Varda from one of the tapestries which adorned the Lady's house. No wonder the lass was the first from their circle to get married.
Unlike many, she was far from envying Gwilwileth, for the sparkling appearance of the latter was heavily overweighed with much less sweet character. Men found it charmingly capricious, women – cantankerous and peevish. Gwilwileth, herself, ignored both the first and the second, counting out those rare persons, whom she either knew for most of her life, like Aerwain, or couldn't help but deem deserving respect, like her fiancé.
"What did he ask in exchange?" purred Gwilwileth, her thin hand raised so that its owner could freely feast her eyes upon the accurate rosy nails.
"Nothing," grumbled Aerwain. Sometimes that woman positively enraged her.
"Nothing at all? He disappoints me."
"Well, he said he wanted me to sew him a tunic."
"And...?" suggested Gwilwileth invitingly.
"And that's all," Aerwain shrugged her shoulders, avoiding the curious glance of her friend.
"My dear," the blonde laughed her best silvery laughter, "If that had been all, you wouldn't have led me into this Valar-forsaken corner. Come on, there's no one except us. You can confess all your shadiest secrets."
"I nearly kissed him," blurted out Aerwain.
"What?"
Gwilwileth opened her mouth in such an uncharacteristic surprise, that Aerwain felt a little stung. She wasn't that much of a domestic simpleton to arouse astonished gaping by just telling that she'd kissed someone.
Although indignant, she still set off for a long explanation. Gwilwileth was listening carefully, and the slighting air of mistrust was gradually wiped away from her face. But Aerwain had to admit that what came instead was no better. First the scanty audience appeared inquisitive, then amused, and by the epilogue Gwilwileth was tapping her hand against her mouth in a thoughtful manner, which allowed her to conceal rather an obvious smirk.
"Sweet Varda, I though you're speaking about a real kiss!" exclaimed she with a small chuckle, as the story was through, "Next time don't joke like this, my nerves are not so enduring."
"It is not a joke!" rebelled the teller.
"No, it's not," agreed Gwilwileth easily, "It's just one silly misunderstanding."
"But what if he thought-" started Aerwain, not reassured at all.
"It doesn't mean anything," interrupted the interlocutress, "Unless you intended to kiss him. Did you?"
"N-no."
"Then there's nothing in it. Dot," she cast the brooch back to Aerwain, and, clasping her fingers in front of her, stretched herself with a catching suppressed yawn, like a sleepy lynx.
"Poor man, he must have been so-o-o disappointed," remarked she, as Aerwain, too, was restraining from yawning after this manifestation of pure laziness. It wasn't really that late, but the quietude of the nook seemed to be calling for slumber.
"Why?"
"It's obvious, I guess."
Aerwain was getting somewhat tired of these opinionated observations.
"Do enlighten me," begged she mockingly.
"He brought you a jewel. He wants to you to call him by the name. He asks for a festive tunic," Gwilwileth was counting on her fingers, straightening them one by one to make her arguments more illustrative, "He's miffed when you ignore him, and … and he turns his head when he sees it is only his cheek you're kissing," she waved a fully open palm in front of Aerwain's nose, "Hey, deary, wake up! Crop all my hair if he doesn't cherish the idea of courting you."
"Lord Haldir?"
"And why not?" Gwilwileth jerked one shoulder, which signified a lazy intention to shrug both of them, "He had always been … ummm… partial to you."
Without a word Aerwain reached out for the forehead of the blonde.
"What is it?"
"I'm afraid you're in fever. My brother has managed to infect you with his delirium," clarified Aerwain with a fake anxiety.
Uttering a sniff, Gwilwileth dove from under the touch.
"I see not why you don't want to treat Haldir seriously. He's a prey to hunt for, don't you think?"
"I'm not a predator to hunt," replied Aerwain shortly. The approach, Gwilwileth took to others' characters, always grated on her a little.
"Oh, I forgot that you're the sappy one," nodded Gwilwileth, and a dangerous sparkle came into her blue eyes. The deep voice fell almost to a whisper, while she leaned closer to Aerwain, "Then imagine - it's the end of your wedding feast… The torches go out, and it's time for both of you to leave – everyone understands it… As everyone understands why…"
She was enunciating each word quietly but clearly, as if adding strokes of brush to a picture.
"…in twilight he carries you into his house, easily as though you're a feather in his arms. The door behind you closes, leaving you two alone. He embraces you, and you give a start, because his body is strong and fervid against yours, stronger than you could even believe. His hands, his lips…are everywhere…Have you never wondered whether he kisses as good as he looks? Have you never wanted his mouth to-"
"Gwilwileth, I don't like what you're saying," cut in Aerwain, tardily realizing to what her friend could come if not stopped. As for her, she didn't intend to listen it up to the end, but not due to the evident impropriety of the picture Gwilwileth was weaving – it was something they always ended up with. Earlier the dubious hints didn't affect Aerwain. She simply ignored them, knowing that to show she minded being involved into such talks was to be shredded into pieces by the sharp tongue of the uncompromising woman. Up to now Aerwain had been estranging from the matters raised with certain success, each time forcing Gwilwileth to retreat grudgingly, but peacefully. This time, however, the story managed to scratch her. Either it was because her friend had manifested an unusual eloquence, or because there was something about the dusky, clinging haze, hanging over the sleepy lake, that clouded her mind, but her chest became suddenly too cramped for her heart.
"But I didn't finish!" laughed Gwilwileth, "His touch is hot, insistent…He whispers something into your ear, yet you don't need his words. You are already burning as his breath caresses your skin… your neck… your-"
"Gwilwileth!" shouted Aerwain at the top of her voice. She was trembling hard, not even trying to even out her breath anymore. All her feelings revolted against the imagination, which kept embodying the words it heard.
And they rebelled more violent against her, because she couldn't help being fascinated by it.
Varda, to what stupidity she was bringing herself.
"There, there," contrary to the expectations, Gwilwileth herself seemed scared with the effect of her chaff, "I am sorry. I didn't know you'd react this way."
"I don't even want to think about it," Aerwain turned away, her throat unable to let through a sip of air.
"Well, forgive me," the blonde was attempting to catch her glance insistently, "Will you? You can even call me a shrew, just don't pout!"
"Let's forget it."
Gwilwileth nodded her head eagerly, and squeezed Aerwain's hand, not letting it go till she received a weak stir of fingers in return.
For some time they were sitting in silence, sharply feeling the strain that had hung between them for the first time in so many years.
"Wouldn't mind swimming a little, since we came here," said Gwilwileth at last, raising up, "And you?"
Aerwain wrinkled her nose in scorn.
"Too much fuss with dressing up and drying," muttered she. She didn't add that she had no slightest desire to take off her clothes, because her skin still prickled uncomfortably after the waves of biting heat had ceased flowing through it.
Gwilwileth smirked an understanding smirk.
"Prude," teased she almost blandly.
"Shrew," retorted Aerwain, feigning a frown.
"I'm mute!" Gwilwileth gave up quickly, and reached out for her silken scarf. Looking at the calm water, Aerwain unexpectedly discovered a wish to take a plunge, too. May be, it could free her from the afterglow of uneasiness, nestling inside.
She threw off her cloak with resolution. But before her hand had gripped at the ties of the dress, she was stopped stiff by a crackle, which could come only from a branch, broken under someone's foot.
Gwilwileth snapped up her head sharply, and both of them peered into the thicket, from where the sound had been heard.
"And now how will you call me?" asked Aerwain in whispers, elbowing her frozen friend.
"It doesn't matter," hissed Gwilwileth, "It matters how I'll call this rat when it is caught."
However, none of them moved. The forest was quiet and motionless, too.
"Do you see anything?"
Aerwain shook her head slowly.
"Just trees."
"It wasn't a tree, you know!"
Not leaving the thicket out of sight, they brought their clothes in order carefully.
"Home?"
"Home," agreed beetle-browed Gwilwileth.
Leaving the clearing after her friend, Aerwain looked back involuntary. Was there really someone who had spied on them?
Considering what that someone could have heard, she sincerely hoped there was not.