A week went by. Between her work and the preparations for Shiriel's wedding, Calla felt that she ought to have been too busy to worry that not so much a word had passed between her and Legolas since he had been called away by the King, but in the pit of her stomach she could feel a cold lump of doubt growing. She found herself sighing over her work and falling into glum reveries, running over and over in her mind all the reasons why it was likely that Legolas had tired of her, or forgotten about her, or… or… And then she would start and realize that someone had been speaking to her. All in all, though, she thought she was doing a pretty good job of keeping her mood to herself.
Until, that is, Shiriel confronted her about it. Shiriel had been chattering along quite happily, Calla hearing nothing she said and then jumping when Shiriel called her name for the third time. Shiriel sighed wearily and slumped down next to her.
"You're thinking about him again?" Calla just nodded. "Calla, I wish it wouldn't make you so unhappy. I don't understand why you get so worried when things don't go right for a little while, or why you're so sure that everything will go wrong… I don't understand why you dwell on things the way you do." The girls sat for a moment in silence. Then Calla smiled and shook her head.
"I guess I didn't used to be like this, did I? I didn't used to mind things so much. I didn't used to be so afraid. I don't know, Shiriel. When did I start—over-thinking everything and frightening myself? I didn't used to mind things. Like taking risks." Calla sighed and the two of them sat in silence for a while. Calla felt she wanted nothing but to sink into blank, semi-reflective silence, but she could tell that Shiriel was anxious, and she knew just what she was anxious to hear. So Calla gave her a squeeze and a smile and,
"I'm all right—or at any rate, I will be very soon. It's just that with everything going on I haven't had time to just take a deep breath for a while. Now," she patted Shiriel's leg and stood up, "let's finish packing."
There wasn't much left to do. Shiriel's wedding was in just over a week and this was her last night in her own house. The next day she'd be moving some of her things to Calla's, where she'd be staying until she was married, and Cadfael would be around with a cart to pick up everything else to take it to his house.
Calla knelt by the trunk Shiriel would be bringing with her and went through a mental checklist of the things her friend would need in the coming week. What was left? Shoes—and boots, just in case of rain—and that little pile of clean shifts. Those she could tuck into this corner here. What about her hairbrush? No, better not pack that yet, she'd need it in the morning. (Just when had she got to be like this? Surely she could remember a time when anxiety hadn't paralyzed her as it did now…?) Box of recipes? Those might as well go straight with Cadfael, Calla had her own at home. What else? (Why hadn't she heard anything from Legolas? But that was nonsense—he was a hero, and an Elf, and a friend of the King. He was busy with other things and his life was full of other people. Honestly!) Ah, flannel nightgown. It was only early spring, after all, the nights were still cold, and there was no point in risking getting sick right before the wedding. Speaking of which, there was definitely a draught in the room and the fire was getting low. Calla went and stoked it up. Shiriel's sewing things were all packed, so that was all right. The kettle should be left out for tomorrow morning, and Shiriel would clean the hearth up then, too—no point in doing it now. (But if she believed those things, why, then, this dread feeling that she'd been forgotten—that she was forgettable? Why didn't knowing these things ease her heart like it used to do? When had she become such a worrier?)
Calla stood in the middle of the room and looked around. Except for the things Shiriel would need that night and in the morning, everything was packed. The rest of her things were in neat piles over in a corner of the kitchen for Cadfael to take. Shiriel came and stood next to her and looked around with a little sigh.
"It looks so much smaller with everything packed up, I would have thought it would be the other way around. Poor, bare little floor-boards! Oh, Calla, I'm actually tearing up about leaving my own dear little house! I just love it absurdly, I really do, and I don't think I could leave it, not for anyone in the world but Cadfael." Calla smiled and kissed her cheek.
"I don't think I could let you leave it for a lesser man."
"Well, I imagine I'll feel right at home in Cadfael's house in no time—only it'll be our house soon, I suppose, not just his—and then I'm sure I'll wonder how I could ever stand to live anywhere else. Wherever I am always seems like it's the best place in the world. And it's closer to you, so there's another good thing."
"Right. Well, my sweet, I'd better be getting home. I've got another long day ahead of me." Calla started gathering her things up.
"Oh? How's the work going? Is the situation with Chanda getting any better?"
"I don't know." Calla sighed. "Sometimes I'm not even sure there is a situation. Probably she finds me as disagreeable as I do her, but it's not as though she's done anything, really. She just rubs me the wrong way. Our lunch breaks are a little awkward." Calla laced up her boots and put on her cloak. "It doesn't matter. And of course, it is good to have help. This deadline would be killing me if I had to do everything alone."
"Well, all right. I love you. See you tomorrow evening."
Calla walked home slowly in the dark, her head buzzing with thoughts. Plans for Shiriel's wedding, her progress at work… she'd heard of a vendor today who might have the perfect silk thread for when things got to the embroidery stage, maybe she'd check that out tomorrow. It was Shiriel's part, really, but Shiriel couldn't drive a bargain to save her life. No poker face. Calla smiled as she picked up the (empty) milk dish she'd been leaving out for the stray and unlocked her door.
But as she closed it behind her and looked around, the smile faded. Nothing was wrong—but everything was. The house was dark and silent, just as she'd left it. Two days of unwashed dishes were piled up on the table, just as she'd left them. The fireplace was filled with cold ashes, just it had been when she left this morning, and—it bore down upon her suddenly, crushingly—she was all alone, just as she had been this morning, and the evening before, and every morning and evening for day after day, all through the long months of winter and autumn, ever since.
Calla was seized by the mad urge to call out her brother's name. Even as the impulse took her and his name sprang to her lips, she choked it down, knowing that if she gave in to this longing ache she would be awake and crying the whole night. Just as she had regained her composure, an image blazed up behind her eyes—Callain's severed head being flung in the air, falling at the feet of the soldiers within the gates. Calla rushed to her bed, yanked her chamber pot from beneath it, and was sick. And then she cried—for years, it felt like.
When she was worn out with crying and felt as though she must have wrung her heart dry, she stood up slowly, lit a stump of candle, and began to tidy up. She washed the dishes, cleaned some excess ash from the fireplace, lit a small fire, and undressed and hung up her clothes. She sat on the floor and gazed into the fire, musing now on her state of mind. Grief was there, and loneliness, and something else. Something had been lurking in her now, for a while, she felt, which had bubbled to the surface and would not be overlooked. What was it? She chased the feeling with her thoughts, felt it hovering on the edges of her mind, just out of sight, just out of reach. Was it—? Was it—? No, it was gone. She shook herself and felt the dry, salty tear tracks on her cheeks and the crust under her nose and got up to wash her face.
Dissatisfaction. The word flashed across her mind as she dashed the cold water over her face. That was what she was feeling. Dissatisfaction with what? The answer flung itself at her out of the dark. Herself. Calla dried her face and bit her lip.
Shiriel had said it, hadn't she? She, Calla, had become an unmitigated pessimist. She always, always put the worst spin on things. She always assumed that everything that could go wrong, would go wrong. She always expected the good things to be fleeting, the hard things to be lasting. She always considered things hopeless.
And it was worse—the torrent of truth was beginning to bruise her but it seemed a floodgate had been opened up in her mind and there was nothing she could do now to keep the thoughts out—it was worse than mere pessimism. Callain had been a pessimist of the first water. But what was it Lord Faramir had said? Something about how Callain had always gone ahead more lightheartedly the worse things were. And that was the difference between them. He, believing there was no hope, had acted anyway, and without fear; she, believing there was no hope, had become paralyzed by her own despair, had allowed herself to become inert, to stagnate, to wallow. However justified her cynicism was—and, she felt, a lifetime spent in the shadow of Mordor, watching brave man after brave man go to his doom was enough to make a cynic of anyone—she had not, she realized uncomfortably, dealt with it bravely. She should be ashamed; she was ashamed. Had her father and brother—and all those other soldiers, for years and years—died so that, in the warm sunshine of peace, she could sit in the dark, a shriveled thing, a dry and wrinkled seed, afraid? And afraid of what—that if she went out into the sun to try her luck, see what she could do, nothing would come of it?
Something gave a little jump inside her, something old and familiar which she had not felt in a long time. Some tight, pinching thing around her heart relaxed, some heavy, bitter thing in her stomach lifted. Calla shuddered and remembered that the world was full of chances—and so what if she tried her luck and her luck failed her? If she stayed as she was now, so cautious that she would make no move, nothing would ever change at all.
She was lonely. And she was smitten with an Elf. And chances were, it was true, that he scarcely thought of her, that she was blowing through his life like a little breeze that would soon be forgotten. Well, if she was content to leave it at that, then she could be quite sure that that was all she would ever be to him. Calla went to her desk, pulled out a sheet of paper and an ink pot and a quill and sat down to write. He will never feel that way about you. Calla heard the familiar voice of doubt speaking clearly, felt hesitation descending upon her, and with a reckless, happy feeling, flung it aside. If she had no chance with him, then she had nothing to lose, did she? She set her pen to the paper and wrote:
Master Elf,
Last time we met I was promised a lesson in natural history. A week may be the blink of an eye to an Elf, but remember I am mortal and impatient, and have pity! You know where to find me. Forgive my restless petulance and remember that I am
Sincerely yours,
Calla the weaver
As soon as she had signed it, without stopping to read it over, she folded it, sealed it, and ran out into the darkened streets. Her feet fairly flew over the cobblestones and within minutes she had a stitch in her side, but she was afraid that her mood was not going to last, and that if she stopped she would think twice and go back home. So she doubled her pace until she came to a gate-house outside the palace, where a guard was awake, keeping watch. A look of concern crossed his face as she approached.
"Miss? What is the matter?" Calla laughed breathlessly, realizing how she must look—tearing through the streets at night, her hair flapping wildly, her bootlaces undone.
"Forgive me sir," she gasped out, "Nothing is the matter. Only—would you see that this gets to PrinceLegolas in the morning?" She handed him the sealed note. "It is nothing urgent, only see that he gets it."
"Yes, miss. Now you really shouldn't be out so late like this, miss, why don't you go on home."
"Yes, of course. Good night. Thank you."
Calla turned and started home again, only half-believing that she had really just written that note. She could still turn back, she could as the guard to give it back to her, Legolas need never read that note. She couldn't quite remember, now, what she'd written. She hadn't said anything very embarrassing, had she? She hoped not. Calla stopped. Maybe the mood that had come over her this evening was sheer madness… Calla bit the inside of her cheeks and rebelled. Old habits were hard to break, and old attitudes harder, it seemed. She wanted badly to go back to the guard and get her note back and burn it. She was just turning around when she was struck by a sudden vision of the future if she did this, the long, lonely, grey hours stretching on and on and on, each one just like the last… Calla shivered and wished she had paused long enough to put on her cloak. That guard was right. She really ought to get in, out of the wind. She jogged the rest of the way home.
In the morning, she was surprised to find that she had slept peacefully through the night.
A/N: Gaaah! A long wait and a short chapter, I know! Mea culpa, mea culpa! Really sorry about that, folks. I'm afraid updates won't be quite as regular for a while (some stuff going on at home, school keeping me hopping) but there shouldn't be quite as big a gap as all that again. I've been kinda waffling about this story, wondering about where it's ultimately going, and I've figured it out now, so I've got a better idea of my goal and that will help me keep things churning.
It occurred to me that some of you might want to know this: there will be no sex scene between Calla and Legolas, yes, even though this is a Legomance, for three reasons. 1) Can't write 'em. Frankly, I don't think many people can. They usually either wax way too lyrical ("her cherry lips parted and trembled like dew upon the grass in the early morn, as he gazed deeply into the depthless pools of her eyes" type stuff) or else they sound like something out of a biology text book or an instruction manual ("insert tab A into slot B"). 2) I've never yet read a story in which a sex scene really added anything. 3) I've talked to a friend of mine about this and she says that, among Tolkien's Elves, sex equals marriage. So yeah. If you're waiting for the big scene in which they get together, I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed.
Finally, one last thing. Since last I updated, this story has been added to the C2 community, "The Worst of the Worst". As you may imagine, I am not thrilled. I mean, that's not exactly what I was going for. But I never expected that this story was going to appeal to everyone. That's why I put the Mary-Sue warning in the summary. What really gets me about this is that this person thought my story bad enough to be included in "The Worst of the Worst" but, having read it and having had some things to criticize, didn't leave me a review. I know I've said before that constructive criticism is very welcome, and I mean that. So, if you're out there, and you agree that my story is that deeply flawed, would you please leave me a review and tell me why? Don't just scream that Calla is a MS or that this is a Legomance. That's the genre I've chosen to write. If you hate the genre, so be it. But please distinguish between some one writing well in a genre you hate and someone writing really atrociously. And if you feel that I fit into the latter category, please tell me why. Really. I am trying to get better.
Okay, I'm done. I promise more story before too much longer. As always, please review! And thanks.