Converging Chances
Seregrían reined up her mount as she approached Adso’s Camp once more, thinking either to keep riding through the night or stopping to rest. She felt then an intuition born of Elven-kind: she was being watched. She looked around and saw nothing; therefore, what watched her must be from above. She gazed upward and saw a figure atop a ruined stone wall.
Eira peered down from the rocks upon seeing a figure coming close. She had been hoping to avoid human contact. She was running, yet she peered closer. Something was familiar about the crimson woman standing below. Placing her hands on the edge of the boulder, she looked down and peered closer.
“And what is this?” Seregrían called as she dismounted, “A bird, perched beneath the boughs? Or a fledgling fallen from the nest, perhaps?”
Eira raised an eyebrow beneath her mask, at the maiden's taunt. Yet, the voice brought her back to the previous night at the Prancing Pony - her last night at the Prancing Pony. She recalled bumping into an Elf who seemed to recognize her Númenorean heritage. Her eyes widened as she gasped. Then she spoke, "Do you mean to harm whatever bird is up here, with its clipped wings?"
“Why would I do such a thing?” Seregrían said, “and who would clip wings, when they can re-learn to fly?” She looks to the woman - clearly, from the voice - and remembers...
Eira scooted closer to the edge of the boulder; playing these words games had little purpose but she played along - perhaps, it was an internal cry for help. "What if the bird had tried to relearn to fly, only to have its wings plucked of feathers and dripped in burning pitch at every attempt?"
“Ai, ad-medui, Dúnadan? For it is you, is it not?”
Eira gazed upon the elf and removed her mask, nodding, "Aye, it is the one you left last night. I have Númenorean blood, yes. But I am not of the Dúnedain."
“Westman, and yet not... longing to fly, and cannot... or mayhaps she is in flight already?”
"Born in darkness, tried to find light. Only for every attempt to be lost to the night."
“Then all that is needed, is a lamp. So, I see two paths: I climb up to your perch, or you flutter down to mine. Either way, we shall know each other.” The woman disappeared for a moment, followed by the sound of stones falling and pebbles loosening. Then, from behind the boulder, stepped Eira. Seregrían nodded approvingly.
“And how would a high and glorious Elf, born in the light and always remaining there, know of my struggles?” Eira said.
“By simple deduction,” Seregrían replied. “You are perched atop ruins, outside of a busy town; you are masked; you are skilled in the Wild, concealed so that only an Elf might divine your presence - although my finding you is by chance, if chance we might call it...”
"Wha-uh..."
“Our brief encounter last evening startled you when I spoke in my tongue - which you clearly recognized, despite being 'not of the Dúnedain'. You were discomfited when others heard us - you are concealing your origins and your paths here, but the surprise stripped away your mask for a moment. You are in hiding - or merely pausing in your flight from these lands.”
Eira took a step back, nodding in confirmation. “I lived in Gondor for a short time and learned the basics of some Sindarin, as the Faithful held that tongue close."
“Clearly, your pursuers are following hard behind you. Your actions are plain; you would take flight, but clearly do not wish to? This means your pursuers are men who likely mean you harm, given your panicked leave-taking - and yet, you will not or cannot trust an Elf, such as I... the estrangement of our kindreds is deep and old. But part of you knows I am no harm or peril to you.”
"You have all but one thing correct. My pursuers are more than just men..."
A raised eyebrow. “In what fashion?”
"Be it orc, uruk, ancient evil - anything my father would throw at his treacherous heir." Eira turned and walked towards a nearby stone and sat, hugging her knees in misery.
“Father... heir... yrch i wethil!?” Seregrían said. “Clearly, there is much more beneath the mask. An intricate puzzle to be solved...”
"I have worn many masks, madam. Sometimes I wonder which one was really me." She leaned back a bit, still hugging her knees, "Would you care to hear my tale of betrayal, sin, shame, and loss?"
“Masks are always worn in the company of others. But there is one mask we show ourselves alone - some cannot bear to see it. I know well that mask... but come, let us speak as the night closes in. Fair Ithil rises. Let the day pass and forget your flight.”
Eira nodded, looking towards the camp where fires glowed, "Where would you prefer to speak?"
“We shall speak where the only voices are our own. None need overhear, you are still in flight, you know.” Seregrían led Eira deeper beneath the trees until the light from the camp could no longer to be seen. Seregrían took a staff from her horse’s harness and whispered something to the beast, who obediently began cropping grass nearby.
Eira sat beneath a large gnarled root, and watched as Seregrían gathered deadwood into a pile, take her staff in one hand and hold her free hand over the wood. The elf spoke, ‘Naur na beth nin!’ and the wood burst into flame, a small but bright campfire now between them. Eira stared at the fire in wonder and stood up from the pitiful root she had tried to shelter under and walked over to the fire.
“There, this shall suffice,” Seregrían said. She removed her hat, shaking loose a mane of black hair. ''Now come... begin your tale, and do not hurry. What shall I call you, fledgling?'
“What shall you call me,” Eira said. “I have had many names. Perhaps, you would like to decide which.”
“Well then, I shall begin. Call me Seregrían.”
“On the subject of names, Seregrían, shall I tell you which name I was born with first?
“Surely...”
