“I would very much like to tell my dear friend Sargiel why I must return to the Greenwood,” Brasseniel insisted.
“Oh - of course, Brasseniel dear. Yes, yes, yes…” Parnard flushed red and meekly hitched his thumbs in his belt. There would be plenty of talk soon enough - still, it was something he wished desperately could remain a secret, if only for a little while longer. He cursed himself for choosing such a public spot for his tryst. Had it not have been for a passerby who made a sound of disgust as he leaned closer, lips puckered and ready, Parnard might have stolen a kiss. Instead he drew back from Brasseniel as if he stepped on a snake.
Soon after this small mortification, a group of people, strollers in the morning sunshine, stopped along the garden path. One of the elves spoke in Quenya and rattled off a list of names as he introduced himself, but apparently he settled on Alessento. Brasseniel’s eyes flashed when he spoke of Silvan elves and their passionate natures. Parnard did not like to listen to such talk either. Some folk seemed to revel in the differences between the kindreds, and held them up as a banner for all to see. Were we not all Elves under the stars? he wondered.
We are not Noldor, Brasseniel said to him. We do not need to follow their traditions. And you owe nothing to Lord Anglachelm. You served him well and long. So have I served the Hammer.
I did not think I could return home, trembling a little as she held his hand. You taught me otherwise.
It is inevitable that our paths would turn from theirs, she observed coolly, yet he could tell she was pleased. She squeezed his hand affectionately. How his heart soared!
Brasseniel grinned at Sargiel and threw him a coy look over her shoulder. "Parnard needs to speak with my father.”
Sargiel gulped, her eyes now trained on him. “Any particular reason why?’”
Parnard seemed unable to bear looking at anyone and found the ground beneath his feet preferable. He muttered something unintelligent about needing to take a wife.
“He asked for my hand in marriage,” Brasseniel clarified for her friend, smiling mischievously, “and it seems I am inclined to give it to him.”
Why must Sargiel jest so, and fall over in a mock faint? Parnard groaned, feeling the hot blood burning his face again. He darted a look at his betrothed. She was grinning at him in that way of hers that made his skinny knees quiver like jelly. He managed a chuckle and puffed his chest out at his own cleverness, feeling chagrin and self-doubt falling away in the wake of his successful marriage proposal. Some might say he was moving too fast, but there was no sense in waiting any longer. They would go away from the Valley: then he would have Brasseniel all to himself. But first there was a long journey ahead, and much to do, including the tricky matter of informing his lordship. Excusing himself, Parnard retired again to his high-ceilinged room, and set to writing a letter, his last, to Lord Anglachelm of Bar-en-Vanimar.
