This story directly follows that of The High Moor: Part the First.
“Surely,” she begins, mindful of how she may accidentally disturb him as she relaxes, and now endeavoring not to, “someone must know something?”
“Surely someone does,” Arrvelas agrees, “but I have not met that someone, now, have I? I only have the distant word-of-mouth to listen to, and the gossip of those who pass me by… and that is how this journey began in the first place.”
Alphaear tilts her head back and forth for a moment before deciding that he is, indeed, correct about the circumstances of how their travel was brought into conception. “Very well, then — what gossip is it that you have heard that sends you to Bree? I am owed that much information if I am to be joining you going forward.”
Arrvelas takes in a deep breath and only offers her a simple shrug. “Many months ago, I heard one of the fools in the Hall of Fire speak about an elf with hair the color of the moon, who wandered the valley with a dwarf, a woodland sprig, and another elf whose hair bore resemblance to fire. At first, I thought little of it. Yet, as I heard talk of them time and time over, my curiosity grew. “
“The latest I have heard of them, that being the information that turns our path westward, is that the group had gone towards the mannish town of Bree. And, finally, I have heard tell of a silver-haired elf, seemingly out of place in a mortal tavern dwelling.” His expression suddenly hardens beneath the cloth that guards his eyes. “I care not where the information comes from, nor shall I question its validity. Any chance to find Ithilwe is a chance I must take. He is my family, and it is my duty to find him.”
She considers this information in quiet for a time; when she does speak, however, it is with an audible hesitance to her cadence. “But… could not any elf bear such resemblance? I myself am of silver hair.”
“Yes, I am sure you are,” Arrvelas replies dryly. “But, understand this, hiril. They likened this unknown elf to that of the moon. That is what Ithilwe is - the moon. And though I have no other proof, I know he is out there! I will follow every lead until he is found, as true or false as they are.”
“How…” Alphaear briefly trails off, unsure as to how to ask the question. “Why is he likened to the moon? How do you know he alone is the one they liken to?”
“Oh, it is just something silly that his mother called him as a child. From what I remember, his hair was more of a dull, boring grey than shining moonlight.” Alphaear has the feeling that Arrvelas would be rolling his eyes at her if he could, as he continues to speak. “And, unfortunately, that is the point. I do not know for sure if it is him — which is why we go to Bree.”
“You would truly go so far in search of him based on such a slight possibility?” She gasps in an incredulous tone.
Arrvelas frowns before he counters her. “And why should I not?”
She audibly hesitates. “I… there is no answer that I can give that would not make me insufferable.”
Arrvelas nods, as a soft chuckle slips from his lips. “Then I shall give you my own answer if you will hear it. I made a promise to Ithilwe long ago, and I cannot fulfill this promise until we are together again. He is… was my charge. It is my responsibility as his only living family to find him.”
Alphaear’s eyebrows lift gently as she considers the revelations made, but just as he did not press the matter of warfare with her, so does she, at last, let the matter of Ithilwe lie. “I see. We should settle in. The night is growing darker and I should wish to put out the fire soon.”
Arrvelas nods, squirming as he attempts to get comfortable in his position of leaning back on the log. “I suppose that I could take the first watch, hiril.”
“There is no need,” Alphaear answers readily as she fishes a book out of her satchel. “I have brought a manner of entertainment, as you put it previously. You may go ahead and rest.”
“But it is only right that the burden of the watch is shared!” He protests. “Shall you not rest as well?”
She sighs, withdrawing a book with a worn blue cover. “How about I read to you, and you go to sleep?” Although her tone was dripping with insincerity towards her companion, the disbelieving snort that comes from him gives her pause.
“You will what?” Arrvelas asks as if he did not hear the words that she so clearly spoke. Alphaear pauses for a brief moment, now reconsidering the sincerity of her suggestion.
“This book…” she begins hesitantly, “covers tales and happenings from the days of yore, of our kin.”
As she explains this, the whole of Arrvelas’s demeanor seems to soften at the suggestion. “And… you would read me one of the tales from this book?” Although his tone is still confused, there is a sudden hopeful tilt to it.
She begins to leaf through the pages of the book, as though she is searching for something in particular. “I think it would help you sleep. Why?”
“I have not been able to read stories of my own, hiril, much less laid eyes on a book since the First Age.” His voice has softened in its entirety, and now he slides so far down onto the ground that his head rests on the log like a pillow.
Alphaear finally finds the right page, and only then does she look at him. Her focused expression changes entirely to one more akin to surprise, but it is certainly gentler than her normally sharp and scrutinizing gaze. A soft exhale passes through her, and she mumbles something about how she indulges in a good story from time to time before clearing her throat with a hint of finality. “You may choose between the tale of Beren and Luthien, or Eärendil the Mariner.”
Without so much as a pause after she finishes speaking, Arrvelas blurts out his answer of, “Eärendil the Mariner… please.”
She bites her lip to hold back a smile as she flips a few pages back. As he falls quiet with a wry smirk. A smirk that elicits a frown from Alphaear as she glances from his face to her book several times over before beginning to speak. “Many Ages ago, in the ancient elven city of Gondolin, was born Eärendil, son of Tuor and Idril, daughter of the King Turgon…”
The smirk on Arrvelas’s face takes on a gentler form at the mention of the elven city. “Fair Gondolin…” he whispers, though not loudly enough to disrupt her readings. She does not seem to take note of his whisper as she continues.
“Only but seven years old at the time of Gondolin’s fall, narrowly escaping demise at the hands of the traitorous Maeglin in battle…” as the words of the story fall from her lips, Arrvelas folds an arm under his head and continues to settle down. Although he listens intently, occasionally he mutters a quiet comment until sleep would finally claim him.
“He was only a child…”
