On the one hand, Imladris was the most welcoming, most pleasant, most peaceful, most beautiful place Cerrynt had ever been. She was almost unhappy to admit it to herself, that this valley was somehow more lovely than the river that ran beside the homes of the Dwrgi-lûth, even on a day in early summer when the rippling flow shimmered as if the stars themselves were fish just below its surface. She sometimes longed to see that river again, wondered if she ever would. But the tumbling rivers, the soaring mountains, the stately trees, the merry wildlife of Rivendell put even that river to shame. She had even spotted otters in the river at times, though they were wary of her and she caught only the merest of glimpses, but even those moments of seeing their joy made her heart sing.
And the Elves, though sometimes amused and puzzled by her, were at all times warm, always willing to talk to her, to teach her, even to learn from her. There was one called Maerhiniath who enjoyed sparring with her and then speaking long into the afternoon about her techniques, how she and her father had invented them, and how they might be improved, or overcome. He had sent her to one called Berenin (not a chieftain, though his name sounded much like the Kymric word), a crafter of weapons, who had replaced the haft of her axe with one better weighted and with a firmer grip, asking no pennies for this but only the chance to study her axe, and to see her fighting technique, and learn from it. A bowyer called Sidlinn showed her that her bow was ill-suited to her size and strength, and traded for a better bow and arrows to match, much smaller, lighter, and easier to draw, promising she would do better with it, with some practice. And there was a harper called Nimorn that, regretting that Cerrynt hadn't brought her flute, showed her some techniques of Elven songs, and taught her a few dozen words and phrases of the Elf-tongue. She even met some passing merchants, Dwarves with wagons, and spoke to them about the road farther east, and its perils.
But most excitingly of all were the stories! Cesistya had found the Westron words for her tale of the deer and the sun, a process she now knew to be called translating; and a keeper of runes called Cerebthos had done the same for the tale of the trout-fisher after hearing it, and had also told her the tale of the fall of a place called Númenor. Then Cesistya, always so encouraging, had mentioned how the Elves sometimes gathered on the East Porch, a lovely place overlooking waterfalls, to share stories, and that Cerrynt would be welcome to join. She went there on quiet days and told the stories to the empty air over and over to prepare, and when next the Elves were to gather, she joined them, nervous as an otter in the talons of an eagle. But the Elves were eager for her stories, and quick to share their own, and courteous to tell the tales in words even she could understand rather than in their own language.
And the greatest surprise of that night was that her friend Adriellyn was there! Cerrynt had been worried about her for very long; she'd left Bree so hurriedly, and the hurt that had haunted her on the long road through the empty-lands clearly still pursued her when she left on the east road, but what could Cerrynt do, other than worry? And so many months had passed. She had at some point taught herself, not entirely successfully, to stop thinking about it, so the sight of Adri on the porch was a shock that unsettled what little poise she had gathered. Adri even took a turn to tell a tale, a very personal tale, revealing more hurts Cerrynt had not known of, atop, or rather beneath, those she had glimpsed. It all made Cerrynt wish she were wise, a derudh perhaps, who could help put the woman, so kind and so brave, on a path to some healing, some happiness clearly so deeply deserved and so often deprived.
But Cerrynt knew she could be no help to the scout. Indeed, when Cesistya suggested perhaps Cerrynt, eager to learn more of the paths of the world, could go with Adriellyn when she would go scouting in a day or two, the Kymru knew Adri would not wish this, but would not want to have to say no. In a way, it was fortunate her next voyage was to the snow-covered north, where Cerrynt would struggle with the cold even if she'd been fully prepared. (Even the perch of Imloden, from which she could take in the whole valley, had been too cold to linger at.) So it was easy to dismiss the idea without Adri being put into a more awkward position.
There were more stories than Cerrynt could keep count of, and she stayed awake late into the night repeating them to herself, as much of them as she could remember, trying to keep her tenuous grasp on these stories for to retell one day, when her mastery of Westron was adequate to the artfulness of their words. And repeated them all again and again to herself the next day, as she roamed the rivers seeking trout to share for supper. As she climbed to the highest rocky bluff over the waterfalls she could reach, she turned over in her thoughts other stories she knew, and chose the tale of Heliwr and Seren to try to translate next. The welcome of the East Porch had left her feeling her heart as full as the basin from which the waterfall below her spilled, and part of her wanted to stay in Rivendell for the rest of her life, immersed in such hospitality.
But on the other hand, Bree had in it a few friends she missed, and she had been gone a long time. And Cesistya had promised that on the return journey she would show her what were the dangers, and how to avoid them, that she might one day take such a journey herself, on her own. And thus, in time, take other journeys, to see all the other places on Cesistya's map, and find a home, either reached by one of those paths, or on the paths themselves. She ached to stay and ached to go, and being torn in two by this was intolerable.
Soon, Cesistya meant to have her meet the brenin of the valley, who she knew of by the name Lordelrond. At first she had felt anxious about this; every time she'd ever met a brenin, or their family, it had gone poorly for her. Would this brenin withdraw the welcome of the valley, and send her hence, perhaps? Why should so noble a hír take time from his day for a Kymru who barely could speak Westron? But now, she was almost looking forward to it. If he cast her out, that would tip the balance, end the battle within her. And if he did not, perhaps he would have some wisdom to offer. All the Elves had wisdom to offer, she had realized, but she often lacked the wisdom to receive it. And even if she received no wisdom from him, she knew Cesistya would soon choose a day for their return, and then that would be that. She would see Bree again, but she would know the way to Imladris, and maybe even could return to see Adriellyn from time to time. She could perhaps have both.
