Chapter XXXVIII: Blinding Jealousy
"Let's get betrothed," Aryon told Nerwen.
It was night; they had dined wict Séredor and Lythelen, and after that, they had retired and were now undressing to go to bed.
Taken by surprise, Nerwen dropped the gown she had just taken off and stared at the prince, wide-eyed.
"W… what?" she squeaked.
Aryon, shirtless, got around the bed and took her hands, bringing them to his lips.
"Let's get betrothed," he repeated, "It's the custom of my people that, as soon as you meet your partner for life, you announce it publicly with a promise ceremony, witnessed by a male and a female sponsor. The betrothal lasts one year and one day, then the nuptial ceremony take place. I always thought of Séredor as my sponsor, because of our long friendship; and he's here at hand. So, how about doing it?"
Nerwen was still dumbfounded: she hadn't expected his proposal, not while they were travelling.
"Good Valar…" she whispered, blinking a couple of times; she noticed the prince's gaze clouding a little and realised that, with her hesitation, she was making him anxious.
"I'd be glad to," she began, slowly, "After all, even where I come from they usually do so. It's just that I don't know where we'll be, in one year and one day…"
"This is unimportant," the prince stated, relieved that her objections were only of practical nature; he kissed the palm of her hand, "Anywhere we'll be, we'll ask other ones to be our sponsors for the wedding. Mayhap… they might be the Entwives," he concluded with a smirk.
"Mayhap, who knows," Nerwen answered, reciprocating his smile.
"Is that a yes, then?" he asked.
"It's a yes," the Aini confirmed. Aryon let her hands go and began fiddling with the string of her undervest, untying the knot.
"So, we have something to celebrate…" he murmured, his eyes still locket with hers. She felt like drowning in those light blue irises, while a now familiar trembling was sliding down her spine.
"I agree…"
OOO
Séredor was enthusiastic about his friend's request; even if, deep down in his heart, he still kept some perplexity about the appropriateness of a union between an immortal and a mortal, even if she was endowed with a much longer life than ordinary humans, he admitted that, in the face of destiny, there is nothing anyone can do; besides, from what Aryon had told him, he had the High Sovereign's blessing, therefore he had no reason to refuse.
Because in this place she had no friend to ask for being her sponsor – she would have had Melian, or Galadriel, but both were very far away – Nerwen asked Queen Lythelen, who accepted gladly in spite of her doubts, even stronger than her husband's.
As they had no guests to call for – surely there was no need to invite Meledhiel – organising the ceremony required only a very short time, practically just as long as the two betrothed-to-be needed to find the promise rings, that traditionally were of silver; Lythelen sent them to her favourite jeweller, where they chose two identical rings, carved like a flat braid running on the whole circumference.
They didn't pay for them: as the emissary of the High Sovereign, Aryon's purchases were directly refunded by the Royal Treasury, and even if he wasn't the First Sword any longer, his sister had allowed him to use the royal credit for all the time he would stay in the territory of the Six Tribes.
The Istar thought that this was generous of her: she had received money both at the Grey Havens and in Lothlórien, and anyway she could gather some using her medical abilities, but it was surely useful having a virtually unlimited credit like this, as long as they could.
They made the most of this stroll, buying a new pipe for Aryon and a stock of galenas, too.
When they returned to the palace, it was almost midday; as they had already agreed to have their lunch with the monarchs, they headed for their private dining room, where they were surprisingly led to the garden. Here, they had set up a pavilion, under which stood a table set as for a luxurious banquet, and next to it the sovereigns of the Hwenti were waiting for them.
"Perhaps we're few in number," Séredor smiled at them, "but the event deserves being adequately celebrated."
The two lovers exchanged amused glances: they had already taken care of this the night before…
"Thank you, my friend," Aryon said, forcing the sultry images of Nerwen's embraces out of his mind, "You're certainly right."
"Come," Lythelen called, motioning for them to get near, "If you like, we can begin straight away."
Aryon took Nerwen's hand and together they walked solemnly toward the king and queen. While they strode the few steps separating them from the other two, Nerwen felt the thrill becoming stronger and stronger, until she was almost short of breath. She knew by heart the few introductive words, but when they stopped in front of the ceremony sponsors, she thought she couldn't remember a single syllable. She gripped spasmodically Aryon's hand; the prince, sensing her nervousness, turned to look at her with what he wanted to be a reassuring expression, but he was actually as much as thrilled.
Noticing the exchange of glances, Séredor and Lythelen did the same, amused and moved; then they looked again at the lovers, waiting patiently for them to speak.
Aryon began, followed after only two syllables by Nerwen, who had suddenly found back her memory:
"After the ancient tradition of the Eldar, we ask you, our beloved ones and our joy, to witness our promise."
The ceremony would involve the presence of friends and relatives, and the sentence would be addressed to them, but as they were only the four of them, it was addressed to the sovereigns only.
Then Aryon looked at Nerwen and went on:
"Here is the one I chose and to whom I have bound my heart," he looked again at Séredor, "To you I rely as son of the soul: therefore welcome her like a father welcomes a daughter and be happy for our joy."
Séredor sensed his friend's infective thrill and had to take a deep breath to calm down before answering:
"Like a daughter I welcome her in my soul and in my heart."
Sponsor and sponsored exchanged the ritual embrace, placing their hands on each other's shoulders; then Séredor bent over to Nerwen and kissed her cheek.
Aryon took the ring out of his pocket and grasped Nerwen's left hand.
"My heart is bound to yours," he said, looking into her eyes, his voice one octave lower because of the emotion he was feeling, "Wear this ring, which now I give you, as a token of my faithfulness and of our bond."
Slowly, he slipped the silver ring on her index finger.
Nerwen felt her heart leaping into her throat and had to swallow hard before being able to answer:
"Happily I accept it, happily I will wear it."
She gave Aryon a bright glance so full of love, he felt his knees turn to jelly and almost staggered. He gathered all his willpower to grasp himself and took slow breaths, trying to calm down.
Now it was Nerwen's turn:
"Here is the one I chose and to whom I have bound my heart," she turned to look at Lythelen, "To you I rely as daughter of the soul: therefore welcome him like a mother welcomes a son and be happy for our joy."
Lythelen beamed at her: in front of the evidence of the sentiment these two shared, her perplexities had vanished all of a sudden.
"Like a son I welcome him in my soul and in my heart," she stated, embracing ritually her sponsored like Séredor had done earlier with Aryon, and then she kissed the prince on one cheek.
With shaking fingers, Nerwen fished the ring out of her waist bag and took Aryon's left hand.
"My heart is bound to yours," she said, repeating his words, her voice trembling with emotion, "Wear this ring, which now I give you, as a token of my faithfulness and of our bond," she concluded, slipping the ring on his index finger.
Aryon's heart skipped one beat before he could answer:
"Happily I accept it, happily I will wear it."
They looked at each other intensely, exchanging with their eyes a promise even more solemn than the one uttered by their lips. Again, Lythelen and Séredor waited until the two betrothed recovered from their emotional state, and then they made the final statement together:
"The Valar witness with you what happened today."
Impulsively, Nerwen and Aryon embraced, then they did the same with their sponsors.
"Congratulations," Séredor said sincerely: like his wife, he had seen the plain sentiment joining his friend to the Istar and he had no more doubts that their union was right and appropriate.
Finally, they sat around the richly set table, and ate and drank in cheerfulness.
It was the thirteenth day of July.
OOO
In the following three days, Meledhiel stayed out of the way of both Nerwen and Aryon; the Maia was relieved, because she had no desire to start a war.
Unfortunately, it proved to be just the calm before the storm.
It was a sunny afternoon and, because of the heat, Nerwen had the sleeves removed from her green housedress. After having spent several hours in the library, doing more research on every available source about the Orocarni, seeking a hint about a pass that could lead her and Aryon beyond that immense mountain range, she was now returning to her chamber.
Walking along a rather dark hallway, out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed a sneaking movement on her right side. Instinctively, she threw herself sideways and this prevented her being stabbed in her back with a long stiletto, ferociously brandished by none other than Meledhiel; the thin blade of the dagger grazed Nerwen's arm, opening a long wound, luckily only superficial, but it made her anyway scream in pain.
With a shriek of surprise and disappointment, Meledhiel stumbled forward a couple of steps, then regained her balance and threw herself in another assault. Nerwen jumped backwards to evade the point of the deadly weapon, almost tripping over the hem of her skirt.
"Stop!" she yelled, "Are you gone nuts?!"
Meledhiel didn't heed her and came back with a low cut meant to gut her, but the Istar escaped her with a backflip.
Unlike on the Feingwend, this time Nerwen had not been taken completely unawares; besides, her adversary didn't brandish a long blade, but a dagger, so she could easier defend herself. Therefore, the Aini put into practice the hand-to-hand combat techniques Tulkas had taught her – she had rarely needed them, but sometimes she brushed up on them because you can never tell – and kept ready to counter the assault by any means. Her long gown hindered her, but she was able to get up from the somersault thanks to the prodigious nimbleness of her race. Her opponent was no less, though, besides she was wearing practical breeches and tunic, which made her movements easier; she whipped around like a snake and charged again.
This time, Nerwen didn't just back off; she moved quickly sideways, seized the wrist of Meledhiel's armed arm and twisted it in a painful grip that forced her opponent to drop her weapon. The stiletto fell clattering on the ground.
The vice Lady of the Palace screeched, outraged, and attacked with her bare hands, her gorgeous face distorted in a mask of hate; but Nerwen was expecting this: she ducked, clutched Meledhiel's arm and turned her own momentum against her, hurling her on the ground. The Elf landed hard and banged her face on the floor; with a growl, she rose again, blood streaming out of her nose. She glared resentfully at her adversary, but refrained from attacking her again: Nerwen practiced a type of hand-to-hand combat she had never seen and she didn't understand how it worked, and furthermore, she showed a speed that was absolutely impossible for a Human. She concluded it was preferable recovering the stiletto, which gave her a sure advantage.
Nerwen noticed the direction of Meledhiel's glance, but he had kicked away the dagger and now it was out of reach of both her and her opponent. She took advantage of the short break and lifted her shirt, thrusting its hem into her belt so as to move freely, ready to defend herself.
At that moment, summoned by the noise, two Palace Guards arrived running.
Meledhiel saw them coming up behind Nerwen and thought to use it at her own advantage.
"Guards! Seize her! She tried to kill me!" she shrieked, "She had a knife!"
The soldiers froze, taken aback, and looked hesitantly at the two adversaries, both wounded.
"What are you waiting for?" the female Elf yelled, "Seize her, I said!"
The two guards exchanged glances; having to choose between Lady Kilven's daughter, whom they knew well, and the foreigner, whom was to them but a stranger, the choice was obvious. They moved to grab Nerwen.
"Stop!" Nerwen shouted: her voice echoed appallingly, while her petite form became suddenly tall and powerful, " Don't you dare touching me!"
Flabbergasted, the guards froze; Meledhiel was speechless, in shock.
From behind the corner, other three soldiers appeared, led by a sergeant.
"What's up here?" the latter bellowed, unsheathing his sword while the other two did the same.
"This woman attacked me with a knife," Meledhiel declared venomously, repeating her accusation.
"Oh, of course," Nerwen laughed at her, "So explain why it's me, the one with a stab wound," she challenged her, showing her bleeding arm to the sergeant. She would wait to heal it with her power, so that she would be able to show it as a proof of the attack.
The sergeant was neither a fool nor a naïve person, and even if he instinctively trusted more the vice Lady of the Palace than the human foreigner, the latter's remark planted the seed of doubt in his mind.
"Indeed…, he said, scowling at the female Elf.
"Call for Lord Aryon," Nerwen quietly suggested him, "He can vouch for me."
"Yes, sure!" Meledhiel spat sourly, "Because you sleep with him!"
"Jealousy is a nasty thing, isn't it?" the Aini spat back; she was trembling with fury, but she forced herself to stay calm, but oh!, what would she pay to kick her ass!
The sergeant motioned for his soldiers and one of them ran off; a few minutes later, he was back with Aryon.
The black-dressed prince took in the scene and paled when he noticed the wound on Nerwen's arm: she shook her head, reassuring him she was fine.
T hen Aryon turned to glare at Meledhiel with such a dark face, it would back off a battalion of Orcs in full battle gear.
"Care to explain, Lady Meledhiel?" he asked in an icy tone. The beautiful Elf shuddered under his hard glance, however she didn't yield:
"Your little friend here tried to kill me with a knife!" she spat, pointing to the stiletto still laying on the floor.
"Actually, it's the exact opposite," Nerwen countered, showing off her injured arm, "Lady Meledhiel attacked me cowardly from behind, like a vile assassin."
"What do you say in your defence, Meledhiel?" Aryon growled, turning to glare again at Kilven's daughter. The female Elf, too blinded by her jealousy to realise her precarious position, flared up:
"In my defence? I am the one who's been attacked, I tell you! Why do you believe her and not me? How do you explain the son of a Maia kept by the leash by a woman of the weak race of Men? Don't you understand she's a witch and you're under her spell…?"
"Enough!" Aryon thundered, cutting her off. His tone made all flinch, even Nerwen, who recognised in it a trace of the imposing capability she herself could give to her own voice.
"How do you dare?" the prince went on, going up to Meledhiel, threateningly standing up at his full height; in front of him, the female Elf shrank, realising she had given herself away with her own words, "How do you dare throwing such accusations? Nerwen the Green is an Istar, not a foul witch, and she wouldn't waste her power for a meaningless love-spell! Like it or not, she's my partner for life and my bride-to-be, and attempting at her life won't change the situation. Sergeant!" he shouted, calling for him imperiously, "Arrest Lady Meledhiel and take her to King Séredor for him to judge her!"
"There's no need for it," a male voce said, making all eyes turn in the direction it was coming from. Séredor come out of the corner of the hallway from where Aryon, too, had arrived. The guard who had called the prince had also sent for the monarch.
"I'm here," the king went on while, frowning, he watched the daughter of his Lady of the Palace; he had heart most of the exchange between her and Aryon, but one question tormented him, "Why did you do it, Lady Meledhiel?"
"I didn't do anything," the female Elf meekly tried, by now aware she had get herself in a hopeless situation, however insisting on her act, "Please, Sire, believe me, at least you…"
Séredor hesitated: he knew Meledhiel since she had been born and it seemed to him truly impossible for her to attempt with no reason to the life of an honoured guest like Nerwen: then his eyes fell on the dagger, forsaken in a corner, and his face turned to stone. He motioned to one of the guards, who picked up the stiletto and brought it to him. The king turned it in his hands while his gaze was becoming more and more gloomy.
"I recognise this," he stated in a troubled tone, "I gave it myself to your father…"
"No, no!" she shrieked, hopelessly, "It's not that one, it's not mine!"
Séredor looked at her with compassion; he still didn't understand her reasons, but it was clear she was not herself.
"Take her away," he ordered the sergeant, in a low and bitter voice, "Lock her up in her chamber."
He knew he should throw her in the dungeons, but he still didn't feel like it. After all, she was the daughter of Lady Kilven, his trusty Lady of the Palace, and it was very hard for him punishing her, even if he was aware he had to do it. However, he wanted to take some time to understand the reason of her insane move and impose the appropriate sentence with a clear head.
The guards hurried to obey, seizing the now ex vice Lady of the Palace; while they were taking her away, Meledhiel turned and shot a last accusation:
"That one isn't who she claims to be! She moves too fast!"
The soldiers didn't stop and dragged the recalcitrant Elf away; perplexed, Séredor turned to Nives:
"What did she mean, by saying you move too fast?" he enquired. At first, Nerwen thought about denying, calling Meledhiel a fantasist, but then she pondered that, should she insist, in the long term this would arise legitimate suspicions.
"An Istar's resources are often a nasty surprise for nasty people," she answered in a deliberately enigmatic way, shrugging and pretending indifference: she could certainly not reveal that her extraordinary agility came from her being an Aini.
Even if the explanation didn't satisfy him completely, Séredor had other plights tormenting him, at the moment; he nodded curtly and disguised his distress under a hard face, but Aryon knew him far too well to not see under the mask he had put on.
"I'm sorry, my friend," he said in a low voice. Séredor shook his head:
"No, Aryon, I am the one to be sorry: an officer of mine wronged severely a guest of mine. Lady Nerwen," he turned to the Istar, "be assured that Meledhiel will be adequately punished," he looked better at her and noticed the wound, still bleeding, "But you need to be treated: I'll call immediately for the palace's physician."
"There's no need," Nerwen said, "After all, it's just a scratch, it'll be enough cleaning the cut and treat it with a balm I have in my luggage… I ask for permission to retire," she concluded with a slight curtsy.
"Of course you have it," the king nodded.
"I go with her," Aryon announced, and Séredor nodded again; obviously, the brother of the High Sovereign had no need to ask him for permission, but after all it was his home and it was a matter of politeness.
As the king of the Hwenti headed for his office to ponder over the difficult issue, Nerwen and Aryon went to their chamber.
The Maia took off her shredded and bloodstained dress, remaining with only the camisole, and in the meantime, the prince headed for the bathroom, where he poured some water from a jug to a basin and soaked a clean cloth; as he returned in the bedchamber, he used it to wash Nerwen's injury, his face dark with concern. She let him do it, smiling slightly; noticing it, Aryon frowned:
"What's there to smile?" he asked, perplexed. She caressed his cheek:
"You're very sweet taking care of me," she answered in an undertone, "but actually there's no need for it."
Surprised, Aryon stopped swabbing the cut and looked at her, clueless; then he recalled what she did to the young bison the troll had injured.
"You're right," he said slowly, "I was forgetting you're an Istar."
She smiled at him, then closed her eyes and focused on the wound, sending there her thaumaturgic power to heal it; under the prince's watchful gaze, the cut closed, leaving only a slight trace that soon disappeared.
Re-opening her eyes, Nerwen noticed Aryon staring at her arm. Taking her unawares, he suddenly hugged her, pressing her strongly against his chest.
"Today Meledhiel could have killed you… By the Valar's grace, she failed…" he whispered in a muffled tone.
Nerwen felt sick in the heart; she couldn't reassure him in this area, not without revealing him her true nature, and this was forbidden.
"It's not that easy killing me," she tried to comfort him, knowing that it was a poor attempt, "I can heal myself as I did with the young bison, even if I cannot heal something deadly, like a stab in the heart, or a too fast working poison, or a too far advanced serious illness," she couldn't tell him this was not applying at herself, "Besides, I'm able to defend myself pretty well: Meledhiel's broken nose is the proof…" she concluded, sardonically.
Aryon held her tight some moments longer, then slowly let her go.
"Yes," he said in a low voice, "I think so," he looked at her, while a slight grin bent the corners of his mouth, partially wiping away the concern from his face, "You're full of surprises, sweetheart… I had no idea you were able to fight hand-to-hand."
"I need it rarely," she observed, "Usually my fame as an Istar is enough to strike fear into people and spare me from attacks, but this of course doesn't apply if they don't believe me," she added, glowering. It happened on board the Feingwend, too: she had to learn to be more cautious.
"From now on, I'll be there to defend you, if need arises," Aryon stated with a resolute tone. He would allow nobody and nothing endangering his beloved; for her, he would confront a Balrog and would slice it up.
Nerwen cupped his face and looked into his eyes; in them, she saw all of his devotion.
"Thank you," she answered, moved, then she pulled him to her and kissed him. He held her tight again, responding to her kiss.
When they parted, he glanced at her arm and brushed the area where the cut had been, feeling only smooth skin.
"Why isn't there any scar, unlike the wound on your hip?" he asked, perplexed.
"The less serious the damage, the better I can heal it," Nerwen explained, "This was only a scratch, while that sword blow was much deeper."
He took her hand and brought it to his lips, placing a kiss on it.
"When I saw you wounded, for a moment I feared the worst," he admitted, "It didn't even cross my mind that you have this prodigious talent… which your colleagues share, I think: it would explain the length of your lifespan, so different from the Men."
Nerwen preferred avoiding answering to this: the Wizards could be very good healers, able to act also on the invisible level to fight the detrimental effects of Sauron's and his thugs' dark power, but they didn't possess the full thaumaturgic power anymore, having been diminished much more than her.
Noticing her silence, Aryon looked at her, puzzled; then he realised that this had to be one of those things she couldn't share with him and, as he had promised, he didn't push it. He changed subject:
"I still can't grasp the reason why Meledhiel attacked you," he said, "I told her very clearly that you and me are partners for life; besides, she learned about our betrothal; so, why try to kill you? She wouldn't anyway win me back…"
"She was convinced I've bewitched you," Nerwen reminded him, "and that this is the reason you think we're partners for life, not because it's true."
"But this is pure folly!" the prince blurted, "When was it ever heard about a spell so powerful? And besides, what reason would you have to bewitch precisely me?"
"She could be thinking I'm in love with you, but you don't reciprocate me, and therefore I resorted to witchcraft to force you," she conjectured.
Aryon shook his head, still incredulous.
"I'm sorry to be the cause of her downfall," he mused in a low tone, "I never thought Meledhiel evil and deserving to end up in jail, or exiled; because it's one of these two, the punishment that Séredor will give her: even if so far she had his respect, the king cannot get over such an insult, which in addition involves me, the brother of the High Sovereign."
"Meledhiel was blinded by her jealousy," Nerwen said, "which turned her into a fool; but nonetheless, she's responsible for her own actions and therefore for the consequences deriving from them. She'll pay for her stupidity," she concluded in a harsh tone that reminded the prince how, under her sweetness, the Istar hided a core of steel, which he had caught sight since their first encounter/clash on the shores of the Sea of Rhûn.
"Right," he agreed laconically, embittered. Nerwen caressed his hand, which was still resting on her arm, in a comforting gesture.
"I'll have to buy a new gown," she observed on a lighter tone, in order to distract him from his dark thoughts, pointing to the torn and bloody garment. Aryon looked at it:
"I know a tailor, just outside the palace: we can go there…"
Nerwen nodded: she was a little sorry for the dress, which had been one of her favourites, but after all, it was just a garment; she would get a similar one.
OOO
The king sentenced Meledhiel to fifty years imprisonment, but out of respect for her mother Kilven, he ordered she wouldn't spend them in the dungeons; instead, he had a chamber set up on the highest floor of one of the palace's towers, where the female Elf was confined; strong iron gratings on the windows and a massive door of oak wood with steel bands and a thick steel bar, closed by a padlock, ensured the impossibility to escape. The padlock had three keys, one kept by Séredor, another by the captain of the Palace Guards, and the third by the Prime Counsellor of the king.
Distraught by the events, Lady Kilven resigned her office as the Lady of the Palace, but Séredor didn't want hear of it; however, he gave her permission to retire from her office for all the time she would need to recover from the trauma the despicable behaviour of her daughter had caused to her. When she would feel like it, she would come back and resume her job.
OOO
Five days later, Nerwen and Aryon took their leave from Séredor and Lythelen; the prince left Nordhir to them; the horse, having completed his task as a spare mount, would be returned to Bârlyth with the first convoy of goods heading for Eryn Rhûn.
Orrodal, the capital city of the kingdom of the Kinn-lai, was located on the first skirts of the Orocarni; it was about 250 kilometres away from Kopellin and to reach it, the two travellers would need six or seven days, following the river Sirlechin.
A lready in the evening of the first day of their journey, on the horizon they caught sight of the highest peaks of the Red Mountains, surpassing 5000 metres height, hooded with perennial snow.
The terrain began to rise constantly, even if slowly; on the fourth day of their journey, Aryon led Nerwen on the top of a rather high, bare hill, from which he pointed out to her the immense mountain range barring the entire eastern horizon, disappearing in the distance both north and south with no interruption. It truly looked like an insurmountable wall.
Nerwen was impressed; it reminded her of the Pelóri, the massive range extending all along the eastern coast of Aman, which highest peak was Taniquetil, where dwelled Varda and Manwë, the two most powerful Valar.
They fully deserved the name Red Mountains, or Orocarni: even if it was just early in the afternoon, they looked like painted by the tawny light of a sunset, except the tips covered with pure white snow.
From that moment on, the mountains dominated the landscape more and more as they approached them, until it seemed there was nothing else in front of them, while the Sirlechin became narrower and narrower, but remained navigable. On the seventh day of their journey, Nerwen and Aryon entered into a wide valley opening in the mountainside; here, the Sirlechin flowed out of the lake of Orrodal, which took his name from the town built on its shores, a long and narrow mere surrounded by woods; the capital city of the kingdom of the Kinn-lai was located exactly at the bottom of the dale, on a slope.
A well-kept road, even if not very large, skirted the lake, bound for the town; the two travellers rode on, with Thalion on their tail and Calad scouting in front of them.
"It's been a long time since I came to Orrodal," Aryon told Nerwen, while they were approaching the gates of the town that, unlike Bârlyth and Kopellin, was mainly built in stone, "Last time, I had a disagreement with King Túrion about some taxes he didn't pay for ten years… We didn't part on very good terms," he concluded grimly, "therefore we cannot expect a friendly welcome like the one Séredor gave us."
"Suffice not going to the palace and just mind our own business," Nerwen suggested, but Aryon shook his head:
"Here, too, they know me well, and our arrival won't go unnoticed. If we don't want giving the impression we've got something to hide, better show up openly, even if just for a formal greeting. Anyway, let's go and find an inn to make us more presentable; we'll go to the palace tomorrow," he concluded.
OOOOO
Author's corner:
Don't be surprised if Aryon and Nerwen look as if being in a hurry to formalise their relationship: they had to wait millennia to meet their partner for life, therefore it would make no sense to wait longer than strictly necessary to get married, don't you agree? XD
The betrothal ceremony is the result of researches made by Gianluca Comastri, well-known Italian scholar of Tolkien and president of Eldalië, one of the most prestigious Italian societies of the Professor's fans. With him as the male sponsor, I had the honour and the pleasure to be the female sponsor of an Elven betrothal and then of the following wedding, during one edition of Hobbiton, the annual festival of the Società Tolkieniana Italiana (Italian Tolkienian Society).
Nerwen's journey is taking her even farther from the known areas of Middle-earth: now we are at the foot of the Orocarni, also called Mountains of the East, beyond which not even the Avari know what lies, because they never crossed them. The Istar and her prince will have to find a way to do it, because Nerwen's vision showed the possible location of the Entwives being beyond this immense range: will they find someone willing to help them? Or will they be thwarted? For sure, their feat doesn't look easy to accomplish…
Lady Angel