“May I buy you a drink?”
She lifts her sodden hood from her shoulders and flashes a surprised smile; her features are dark and angular but not harsh, and her smile softens them enough to call them beautiful. “You’re very kind. Something warm would be nice. I’ll put my own cloak by the fire, thank you,” she says, forestalling my offer and moving off to do so.
By the time she returns to the rough wooden table, I’ve procured a pair of mugs filled with hot mulled wine. She’s shed her wet cloak; her long black hair is tied back into a rough pony tail and though she’s clearly tired from the road and the rain, she still nods appreciatively as she sits.
“To warm fires,” I say, lifting my mug, and she does the same, watching me as she takes a tentative drink.
“Not what I expected,” she says, glancing up at me and nodding, “but a very good choice.”
“What did you expect?”
She purses her lips querulously. “What a peculiar question,” she says.
“I’m a peculiar fellow.”
She smiles, hesitantly. “Perhaps.”
“So what did you expect?”
“Less conversation, for one. Less good liquor for another” she says, her smile unintentionally bewitching. “Inns such as these rarely have much of a selection of either.”
“You sound as though you have some experience in such matters.”
“I have traveled,” she says, toying with her mug “And you?”
“Here and there.”
She chuckles lightly. “You’re most evasive.”
“Some details are more important than others.”
“They are indeed,” she says, nodding her agreement. “And those are the ones least often shared.”
I laugh at that. “Such cynicism in one so young!”
“One can be young at eighty-five and old at thirteen,” she says, leaning back to make herself more comfortable. “Years alone are not a very good measure of a man.”
“What is, I wonder?”
“The things we have done,” she says resolutely. “Only those.”
“And what of the things we’ve left undone?”
“Only when we’re in our cups,” she says, a sudden, mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “And only then.”
“Then may I pour you another?” I ask, noting her nearly empty mug.
“By all means,” she replies, and I do.
We relax for a time in a comfortable silence, and I pour another mug for both of us before she speaks again.
“What brings you to these parts?” she asks, glancing sidelong at me. “This is not the kind of place I would expect to find a man such as yourself.”
“How do you mean?”
“Clearly you are no peasant farmer or laborer, and based on the smoothness of your hands I doubt you hunt or make war. This leaves you as an academic of some sort, a man of the city and not the wilderness. These are rough lands for such a man.”
“And clearly you are no peasant’s wife or scullery, and based on your right hand I doubt you hunt or make war, though you have kept your left well hidden. This leaves you as an academic of some sort, a woman of the city and not the wilderness. And the land here – as you rightly say – is not easy.”
“Observation for observation,” she notes, her eyes narrowed slightly. “Now, answer for answer?”
I incline my head. “I am indeed an academic, though I am no stranger to the wilderlands. I am writing a book, and have come here for research; this inn is a convenient location from which to conduct my studies. The innkeeper is honest, the room is adequate, and his sons take excellent care of my horse.”
“And the quality of the wine plays no part in your decision?” she asks impishly.
“Have you tasted the small beers of the north?”
“I have.”
“Then you already know the answer to your question.”
She laughs, clapping her hands together in good humor, and favors me with a broad smile. “I do indeed. Now tell me your name. Company is fair on a night like this, and now that I’ve determined you have a mind and a wit, I’d like to impose on yours a little longer, if you’re willing.”
“Arn,” I reply simply.
“Well then, Arn, I am Elori,” she says, extending her hand. I take it and meet her gaze; her grip is soft but strong, and her hand lingers in mine perhaps slightly longer than appropriate.
“A Hengian name,” I note as she reluctantly takes her hand back.
“But Maltharian born,” she replies, shrugging slightly. “Sadly, I have never been.”
“Out of choice?”
“Not exactly,” she says, her eyes glancing up and away for a moment.
“”Was he worth it?”
She gasps in exaggerated offense, though her eyes meet mine with an odd intensity. “Would you mock me in affairs of the heart?”
“Clearly, I am not the only one at this table skilled at evasion.”
“Some details are more important than others,” she says, a rueful smile twisting her lips.
“Prove your own cynicism wrong, then. Say them aloud.”
She stares at me for a long moment, her brown eyes narrowed as she tries to gauge my intent. “You are right. You are a peculiar fellow.”
“I did warn you.”
“You did,” she allows, and she leans back in her chair. “Yes. He was worth it.”
“Was?”
“The world conspired against us. In the end… it was not to be.”
“How did that make you feel?”
She chuckled, a sad, soft sound. “When we were denied, we were young and in love. Oh, we railed against fate and cursed the Gods, but then life demanded we go our separate ways. It was many years later when we met again, and by then… it was almost a relief, really.”
“A relief?”
“Have you ever had a childhood memory ruined?” she asked. “A tree you remember being a thousand feet tall, but when you returned to it as an adult you found it was only twenty? A friend, perhaps, who you shared every secret with, only to reunite as adults and find you have nothing in common? It was five years from the time we were separated to the time we were reunited, and we were children no longer. We had grown apart, and we had the sense to see it before we tried to rekindle what we once had.”
“He was relieved as well, then?”
She frowns. “We came to our decision mutually.”
“I do not doubt it,” I said, refilling her glass. “But I did not ask that.”
“No,” she says, taking up the mug and taking a long drink. “You did not.”
“Was it sense that drove your decision, or was it fear?”
“Fear?” she repeats with a harsh laugh. “Fear of what?”
“Fear of losing him again, perhaps.”
“You make no sense. With that decision, our old love was no more. Why would I make a decision that would assure such a loss if I feared it?”
“An excellent question,” I reply, taking a drink.
“Then I pose it to you,” she says, her eyes narrow and her voice sharp. “Why might one make a decision that would assure an outcome they feared?”
“Because it would remove all doubt.”
“It would, wouldn’t it?” she murmurs, leaning forward to look more closely at me. “It seems we may have something in common after all.”
“Cowardice?”
“Pragmatism,” she returns certainly, an eyebrow raised.
“Are they necessarily so dissimilar? Faced with impossible odds, is it bravery to strive against them or to throw yourself on your sword – thus removing all doubt as to the outcome?”
“If the end result is the same, what does it matter?”
“So there are no dreams for you?” I ask, softening my tone. “Do you have no fears, because you have no hopes?”
“Hopes are for innocents,” she says quietly, a forlorn, faraway look on her face. “For the rest of us, there is only now.”
“May I buy you a drink?”
She lifts her sodden hood from her shoulders and flashes a surprised smile; her features are angular but not harsh, and her smile softens them enough to call them beautiful. “You’re very kind. Something warm would be nice. I’ll put my own cloak by the fire, thank you,” she says, forestalling my offer and moving off to do so.
By the time she returns to the rough wooden table, I’ve procured a pair of mugs filled with hot mulled wine. She’s shed her wet cloak; her hair is tied back into a rough pony tail and though she’s clearly tired from the road and the rain, she still nods appreciatively as she sits.
“To warm fires,” I say, lifting my mug, and she does the same, watching me as she takes a tentative drink.
“Not what I expected,” she says, glancing up at me and nodding, “but a very good choice.”
“What did you expect?”
She purses her lips querulously. “What a peculiar question,” she says.
“I’m a peculiar fellow.”
She smiles, hesitantly. “Perhaps.”
“So what did you expect?”
“Less conversation, for one. Less good liquor for another” she says, her smile unintentionally bewitching. “Inns such as these rarely have much of a selection of either.”
“You sound as though you have some experience in such matters.”
“I have traveled,” she says, toying with her mug “And you?”
“Here and there.”
She chuckles lightly. “You’re most evasive.”
“Some details are more important than others.”
“They are indeed,” she says, nodding her agreement. “And those are the ones least often shared.”
I laugh at that. “Such cynicism in one so young!”
“One can be young at eighty-five and old at thirteen,” she says, leaning back to make herself more comfortable. “Years alone are not a very good measure of a man.”
“What is, I wonder?”
“The things we have done,” she says resolutely. “Only those.”
“And what of the things we’ve left undone?”
“Only when we’re in our cups,” she says, a sudden, mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “And only then.”
“Then may I pour you another?” I ask, noting her nearly empty mug.
“By all means,” she replies, and I do.
We relax for a time in a comfortable silence, and I pour another mug for both of us before she speaks again.
“What brings you to these parts?” she asks, glancing sidelong at me. “This is not the kind of place I would expect to find a man such as yourself.”
“How do you mean?”
“Clearly you are no peasant farmer or laborer, and based on the smoothness of your hands I doubt you hunt or make war. This leaves you as an academic of some sort, a man of the city and not the wilderness. These are rough lands for such a man.”
“And clearly you are no peasant’s wife or scullery, and based on your right hand I doubt you hunt or make war, though you have kept your left well hidden. This leaves you as an academic of some sort, a woman of the city and not the wilderness. And the land here – as you rightly say – is not easy.”
“Observation for observation,” she notes, her eyes narrowed slightly. “Now, answer for answer?”
I incline my head. “I am indeed an academic, though I am no stranger to the wilderlands. I am writing a book, and have come here for research; this inn is a convenient location from which to conduct my studies. The innkeeper is honest, the room is adequate, and his sons take excellent care of my horse.”
“And the quality of the wine plays no part in your decision?” she asks impishly.
“Have you tasted the small beers of the north?”
“I have.”
“Then you already know the answer to your question.”
She laughs, clapping her hands together in good humor, and favors me with a broad smile. “I do indeed. Now tell me your name. Company is fair on a night like this, and now that I’ve determined you have a mind and a wit, I’d like to impose on yours a little longer, if you’re willing.”
“Arn,” I reply simply.
“Well then, Arn, I am Elori,” she says, extending her hand. I take it and meet her gaze; her grip is soft but strong, and her hand lingers in mine perhaps slightly longer than appropriate.
“A Hengian name,” I note as she reluctantly takes her hand back.
“But Maltharian born,” she replies, shrugging slightly. “Sadly, I have never been.”
“Out of choice?”
“Not exactly,” she says, her eyes glancing up and away for a moment.
“”Was he worth it?”
She gasps in exaggerated offense, though her eyes meet mine with an odd intensity. “Would you mock me in affairs of the heart?”
“Clearly, I am not the only one at this table skilled at evasion.”
“Some details are more important than others,” she says, a rueful smile twisting her lips.
“Prove your own cynicism wrong, then. Say them aloud.”
She stares at me for a long moment, her brown eyes narrowed as she tries to gauge my intent. “You are right. You are a peculiar fellow.”
“I did warn you.”
“You did,” she allows, and she leans back in her chair. “Yes. He was worth it.”
“Was?”
“The world conspired against us. In the end… it was not to be.”
“How did that make you feel?”
She chuckled, a sad, soft sound. “When we were denied, we were young and in love. Oh, we railed against fate and cursed the Gods, but then life demanded we go our separate ways. It was many years later when we met again, and by then… it was almost a relief, really.”
“A relief?”
“Have you ever had a childhood memory ruined?” she asked. “A tree you remember being a thousand feet tall, but when you returned to it as an adult you found it was only twenty? A friend, perhaps, who you shared every secret with, only to reunite as adults and find you have nothing in common? It was five years from the time we were separated to the time we were reunited, and we were children no longer. We had grown apart, and we had the sense to see it before we tried to rekindle what we once had.”
“He was relieved as well, then?”
She frowns. “We came to our decision mutually.”
“I do not doubt it,” I said, refilling her glass. “But I did not ask that.”
“No,” she says, taking up the mug and taking a long drink. “You did not.”
“Was it sense that drove your decision, or was it fear?”
“Fear?” she repeats with a harsh laugh. “Fear of what?”
“Fear of losing him again, perhaps.”
“You make no sense. With that decision, our old love was no more. Why would I make a decision that would assure such a loss if I feared it?”
“An excellent question,” I reply, taking a drink.
“Then I pose it to you,” she says, her eyes narrow and her voice sharp. “Why might one make a decision that would assure an outcome they feared?”
“Because it would remove all doubt.”
“It would, wouldn’t it?” she murmurs, leaning forward to look more closely at me. “It seems we may have something in common after all.”
“Cowardice?”
“Pragmatism,” she returns certainly, an eyebrow raised.
“Are they necessarily so dissimilar? Faced with impossible odds, is it bravery to strive against them or to throw yourself on your sword – thus removing all doubt as to the outcome?”
“If the end result is the same, what does it matter?”
“So there are no dreams for you?” I ask, softening my tone. “Do you have no fears, because you have no hopes?”
“Hopes are for innocents,” she says quietly, a forlorn, faraway look on her face. “For the rest of us, there is only today.”
