Realizations Part Two
Finduilas sat in the garden after Gwindor had left, twisting the stem of the pink flower around a finger and thinking. She had told him the truth, she could no longer love him.
So long ago they had been in love. Before he left, they had promised themselves to each other. "Forever," they had said, and Gwindor had told her that when he came back they would be married. Weeks passed with no word, but that was not unusual. When news of the war came, it was ill. Gwindor was not among those few that returned. Finduilas had held hope for almost two years, then grieved for him, never thinking that he might have been captured. He would never have been captured, she had thought. He would have lived or died fighting.
When she saw him again for the first time in years, she knew he had changed so much that she no longer knew him as she used to. Everything about him had changed; the way he walked, talked and thought had changed. In a way it was as if he was not the same elf, just someone who looked a little like the Gwindor she used to know and had the same name. She had known who he was of course, but only just. When she first saw him, she thought that she might still be able to care about him as she had, but after only four days had passed, she knew that she could not. He was so different, his eyes were different, less alive, but at the same time fiercely and defiantly alive in a way that unnerved her. He was quieter, when he spoke, he spoke only to one person at a time, as if thinking that he would be overheard by someone the conversation was not meant for. He smiled less, the few times she'd really seen him smile since his return was when she was with him. He used to be an accomplished harpist and skillful dancer, but now when she asked him to play, the soft music of the harp was like weeping and he would not play for long. He no longer danced, he claimed he'd forgotten how, and when Finduilas offered to teach him again, he smiled for a moment, seeming more himself, then a shadow passed over his face and he said he was too tired. All this was so unlike the Gwindor she had known! Feeling confused, she decided he was now too different and sad for her, as she feared he would be. She regretted not telling him how she felt sooner. She pitied him, but did not love him. Thankfully, he had taken it well, she had been right in thinking that after so long away he could no longer love her. He must have remembered their promise and tried to keep it. While that was thoughtful of him, it was unnecessary, now he was released from the promise and could seek healing.
All that was to the good, because now she had a new interest and a new puzzle.
Mormegil. Who was he? He was more than he said he was, but what did that mean? She had heard her father speak highly of his counsel, he was not afraid of battle as Gwindor seemed to be. She wondered if Mormegil
knew how she felt about him. *He must feel the same way. That is why he has been so kind to me. Perhaps, maybe even tonight, he will tell me that he loves me. He must know how I feel, I have all but told him.*
She looked at the flower that lay in her hand and turned it over. While still beautiful, it had already begun to fade. The sound of approaching footsteps took her mind far from the fate of a little flower that she dropped not far from where she sat when she went to greet Mormegil.
Finduilas sat in the garden after Gwindor had left, twisting the stem of the pink flower around a finger and thinking. She had told him the truth, she could no longer love him.
So long ago they had been in love. Before he left, they had promised themselves to each other. "Forever," they had said, and Gwindor had told her that when he came back they would be married. Weeks passed with no word, but that was not unusual. When news of the war came, it was ill. Gwindor was not among those few that returned. Finduilas had held hope for almost two years, then grieved for him, never thinking that he might have been captured. He would never have been captured, she had thought. He would have lived or died fighting.
When she saw him again for the first time in years, she knew he had changed so much that she no longer knew him as she used to. Everything about him had changed; the way he walked, talked and thought had changed. In a way it was as if he was not the same elf, just someone who looked a little like the Gwindor she used to know and had the same name. She had known who he was of course, but only just. When she first saw him, she thought that she might still be able to care about him as she had, but after only four days had passed, she knew that she could not. He was so different, his eyes were different, less alive, but at the same time fiercely and defiantly alive in a way that unnerved her. He was quieter, when he spoke, he spoke only to one person at a time, as if thinking that he would be overheard by someone the conversation was not meant for. He smiled less, the few times she'd really seen him smile since his return was when she was with him. He used to be an accomplished harpist and skillful dancer, but now when she asked him to play, the soft music of the harp was like weeping and he would not play for long. He no longer danced, he claimed he'd forgotten how, and when Finduilas offered to teach him again, he smiled for a moment, seeming more himself, then a shadow passed over his face and he said he was too tired. All this was so unlike the Gwindor she had known! Feeling confused, she decided he was now too different and sad for her, as she feared he would be. She regretted not telling him how she felt sooner. She pitied him, but did not love him. Thankfully, he had taken it well, she had been right in thinking that after so long away he could no longer love her. He must have remembered their promise and tried to keep it. While that was thoughtful of him, it was unnecessary, now he was released from the promise and could seek healing.
All that was to the good, because now she had a new interest and a new puzzle.
Mormegil. Who was he? He was more than he said he was, but what did that mean? She had heard her father speak highly of his counsel, he was not afraid of battle as Gwindor seemed to be. She wondered if Mormegil
knew how she felt about him. *He must feel the same way. That is why he has been so kind to me. Perhaps, maybe even tonight, he will tell me that he loves me. He must know how I feel, I have all but told him.*
She looked at the flower that lay in her hand and turned it over. While still beautiful, it had already begun to fade. The sound of approaching footsteps took her mind far from the fate of a little flower that she dropped not far from where she sat when she went to greet Mormegil.
