Chapter 11


My head swims and my vision blurs as I wake and sit up. The soft fur under my hands confuses me as does the realization that my arms are not bare. They are covered in the faded reds and golds of a country I do not know. The same colors cover my legs. This clothing is huge on me; it belongs to a man.

A man, yes, now I remember. The reliving of this moment almost makes me swoon. But, I do not dwell on it, for I am not alone in my reverie.

The flaps of the tent open with a sound like wind in sails. And he steps inside.

Attempting to be respectful, I shift so that I am sitting straight up, and wait for him to speak. But he is silent, pausing with his hand on the tentflap, crouched in the entrance.

Perhaps he is surprised that I am awake.

His face is a mask of indecision until he turns and I can no longer see his eyes. I am momentarily disappointed as the tentflap swishes closed, but he returns almost in the same instant, this time carrying a tray with bread and cheese and a carved goblet with some kind of liquid in it. He sets this down on a box at my feet and sits facing me, studying my face. I wish he would speak.

Words. They are like a soothing balm and a shocking blast of icy water. His words wrung tears from my eyes before, and I want so much to feel this way again. I never before realized how starved I was for spoken thoughts, until I actually heard them. As to what he said, I can not remember. I was far too stunned to listen.

In the hopes of prompting his speech, I lean forward, the heavy woolen blanket pooling around my waist, folding against my stomach. My hands rest, palm-down, on my knees and I fight the urge to drum my fingers impatiently. I am like a woman starved who has been given the tiniest morsel of food, a tantalizing taste.

He opens his mouth to speak and I lean farther forward, shaking with expectation. But, he only sighs and drops his head, running his fingers through the wavy, blonde locks of his hair. His cheeks color, painted red, as if he is embarassed. But, when I lower my head, tilting my face upwards, I see that his eyes swim with shame.

This frightens me. What has he to feel guilt for? I catch myself reaching forward to touch him reassuringly. I am not yet ready to take this step, this connection linking me to the tangible. I must be ready to revert into my phantom-self.

Seeing me reach forward, his head lifts up, his eyes catching me just as I pull my hand back.

"I am sorry if I frightened you earlier, my lady," he says, his voice gentle.

Here is the answer; he is ashamed of my tears and fainting spell. He must believe that he startled me to the point of swooning. If I had it in me to laugh, I would. But, I do not.

"I never meant to cause you harm, but something I did must have affected you adversely," he continues, confused as to my silence. "Perhaps you did not understand my words when I spoke yesterday. I meant only to reassure you."

It is true, I did not understand him then. His words were unimportant, only that he was speaking them. But, it is easy to understand now. I recognize his language. He is of the horse-lords of Rohan, speaking the language of his kin. In my fifteen years of isolation in Imladris, I learned much of the world. With little else to occupy my mind, I became adept in all language and history, though I would never speak. The reds and golds in my shirt and pants are instantly recognizable as the colors his country, now that I know his language.

The realization that I am wearing his clothing is as shocking as that first touch. It is another connection; I have never before worn clothes that belonged to someone other than myself. I sigh, afraid and exhilarated at the same time. I am losing that invisible person I once called myself. A set of old, faded, used clothes has brought me back to reality.

I come back to myself and realize that he is still staring at me intently, worry darkening the light blue of his eyes to a color close to that of the sky prior to a storm.

After a few more minutes filled to bursting with the intense silence, he sighs and mutters, almost to himself, "You do not understand a word I am saying, do you?"

I can lean no further forward, so I tuck my legs under me, sitting back on my ankles. As I hoped, he sees my movement and looks up. As soon as I catch his eyes, I nod encouragingly. Yes, I understand everything you are saying.

He smiles at my reassurance and I catch myself almost smiling in return. I can not help it. The brightness of his smile is like the sun peeking out from the clouds. Still, I try my best to convey happiness strictly with my eyes. I want him to know that I have never felt this joyful in my life.

"If you understand, then why do you not speak?" he asks, the smile gone from his face, replaced by confusion.

At this, I falter, unsure of how to explain using only my eyes. It is impossible. How can I explain the curse of my name without speaking? It is a paradox; I am cursed not to speak and therefore can not explain my curse. It is the trap of my existence. How I wish he had not asked me that question. My joy lost, I lower my face in shame.

Thankfully, he asks nothing more. There is, once again, only pregnant silence in the warm confines of the tent. Silence is my companion.

I hear him stand, breaking my pained contemplations. When I look up at him, he is standing in the entrance to the tent, holding the flap open and gesturing toward the camp. Slowly, he extends his hand to me, to assisst me in standing, or so it seems.

I hesitate, staring at his open palm. His hand is calloused from years of swords and horses, but I feel my fingers twitch, wanting to test his skin, to see if his hand could possibly be soft under the callouses. I admire his patience as I study his hand. His arm does not tire and he does not retract his offer of support. He waits.

I take a deep breath. Am I ready to take this step? I am sure that if I instigate the contact, I will be giving away my old life.

I expel the breath in a rush and place my hand in his.