Disclaimer: "The Lord of the Rings" and all related items belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This is merely an excursion into Middle Earth as it transitions from a land of hobbits and elves to the domain of man.
The Dark Forest – Part XVI
He says nothing; merely looks in my direction and beckons me with his eyes. I step into the room, hesitantly, my eyes fixed on his. I barely know where my feet are going. I shuffle carefully across the floor towards him, towards the long wooden table at which he is sitting and the empty chair across from him…
There is a bowl of fruit in the centre of the table, picturesque and perfect, untouched and elegant. I presume this is where we will eat. I feel like my chest has been bound with horribly tight ropes; I cannot breathe.
At last I am standing in front of him. He stands up, extends his hand. I reach out and take it. Gentle, soft, warm, light, un-human…such a different situation then when he last gave me his hand. He bows his head, and his lips brush against the back of my hand. I shiver, uncontrollably, and he lets go abruptly, glancing at me in concern. I shake my head.
"I'm sorry…" I stammer, "I was surprised…"
"My apologies, lady," he says, the words laced heavily with grace and accent. "I did not mean to startle you."
"You did not startle me," I try to explain, but there is too much of a barrier between us for me to explain any further.
We sit in silence for a moment; several moments. At last, when I find myself gripping the folds of my skirt so tightly that my fingers are turning white, a woman enters the room. To call her a mere woman, though, is hardly enough; she is his equal in every way. I try my best not to gape too long and too obviously. He inclines his head at her, and she smiles in return, dipping a half-curtsey. That is when I see the tray she carries in her arms. It is wide, silver and rectangular, and displays an assortment of delicacies which not even Sir William could imagine at his dinner table. She places the tray before us, delicately, and wafts away through the door, leaving only the scent of meadowgrass after the rain.
I stare at the tray, focusing all of my attention on one intricately engraved cornerpiece. He follows my gaze. "A beautiful piece," he says, softly, and my lips twitch. Not in smile or laughter, but in nervousness. Never before have I found myself so incapable of speaking, so that I am struck dumb in the presence of he whom I would most like to impress. "Come now," he says, "Let us partake of this good meal."
I glance over to him, careful not to meet his eyes, and stare instead at his lips. They do not twitch. They are curved carefully in a well-formed smile that somehow conveys peace, goodwill, and comfort at the same time. Solace in a smile. He is tender to me, gentle, as if I am a wild creature he seeks to calm. A deer, perhaps, frozen in rippled sunlight, caught in the second between coming and fleeing. Do I step closer, or do I…
"You must eat. I imagine you are very hungry." Common words from an uncommon tongue. Seeing, or knowing, that I am not going to move, he serves me, gracefully removing a dish from the tray and placing it before me. "Eat." There is a hint of amusement in the single word. I look at the plate, aghast. There is more food there than I could hope to consume even if I were myself and in my own place.
He takes a dish from the tray, similarly, and sets it before himself. I notice, abstractedly, that there is no wine. We drink only sunlight and fragrance. It is morning, after all. "May the gods bless our feast," he says quietly, head bowed. I watch him close his eyes, and silently offer my own prayer.
And so we dine.