Such a gathering! To see so many folk of the star together. I do not know how long it has been since we met in such a number. I should ask Oldgrove - he prides himself on history. Perhaps he will recall it.
A gathering by chance at the shore of the lake at Tinnudir, though Adunzil and I had hastened there at Filrean's call some days earlier. A hard fast ride for me. The pain that results from so many hours in the saddle, offset by the thrill and ease of movement that being a-horse always brings.
Yes, we spoke to the others of the meeting we had had earlier in the keep. The misunderstanding between we three and the others that had gathered there. It is hard for me to put aside my anger at having a sword drawn at me. I, who have no great skill in arms, who bears no edged weapon. My sorrow that even the keep of Tinnudir is no barrier to the insidious works of the enemy to bring division and suspicion between those that should be friends.
Flirean spoke to them as well as she could, Adunzil a waiting presence at my shoulder. Dwelling on the memory I alight upon his quick action as the hand hovered towards the sword. I do believe he was ready to step forward and protect me.
I do not know whether to smile at that, or despair. I openly admit I am no warrior... my arts are elsewhere - but I believe that by being weaponless, violence is less likely to find me. Auldwood though has me wrong. My love of the healing arts does not mean I do not know when to strike, or bewail every blow. There are times when justice and protection may only be delivered through force of arms. But I dislike the pleasure and bravado that some display in doing so. There is nothing to brag about in the slaughter of others, only a sorrow that it has come to pass.
Elgaraen seemed to upbraid me for my anger, as Filrean and I recounted the tale of the meeting. What can I say... I was angry... I am not ashamed of it. it is perhaps easy for one who is hale of body to make light of what passed, but for me ... to offer violence to a healer ... yes. I am angry.
And Amloth ... as ever, sat and listened, his handsome battered face turning from one to another as he weighed what was said. Sometimes I think he is like a great pot, into which each of us throws our particular ingredients ... and he boils them up and produces... the sum of all our parts... usually in a palatable form.
Ah now... that takes me back. I should remind him of the first time he tried to make bread. I wonder if he recalls it? The dough, sticking to his hands.. onto his face... seeming a live and growing thing. In his hair... plastering his tunic. That rapt yet amusingly gormless expression he had as a child when he was engrossed in anything new.
I caught him by the lake, staring, after the meeting. So absorbed in his thoughts, he looked like the child I knew. Mouth open and goggling. For all our years and wisdom, in him I still spy that curious boy, and love my cousin the more for it.
