Beleriand - Friday, December 21, 2001, 7:19 AM

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Along the West Bank of Narog River(#4054Rt)

You see the River Ringwil to the north flowing from the west and tumbling down violently into the deep gorge joining with the mighty Narog River. The Narog River to the east rushes on southwards. You are careful not to stray from the path you are on lest you tumble headlong into the gorge like the River Ringwil. There does not seem to be any way to get to the other side of the rushing river. To the west, you see the wooded dense highlands of Taur-en-Faroth. The forest region looks rather imposing from where you are...

The dawn is just beginning to rise over the Narog, the beginnings of a glorious sunrise lighting the white landscape with a warm golden-amber color that reflects against the layer of snow and dazzles the eye. The weather is bracingly cold, and while Adan might find it difficult to be outside in such weather (The winter came early this year, and bitter cold), Elsabet is dressed in nothing warmer than an ordinary blue dress and a cloak of white, which makes her difficult to see against the snow. Yet as she bends to dig in the grounds with her fingers for a dormant root, her hood falls back to reveal her unbound dark hair, making her presence suddenly quite easy to discover.

Even on a winter morning, hardly the best of times for hunting, Morthalion is outside with his bow, having pre-empted dawn by an hour or two to take to the snow - this weather is very much reminiscent of Himring and Aglon, after all. Near the spot where Elsabet stoops and plucks at the medicinaries hiding under the ice, the archer emerges from between the snowy branches (all but impossible to miss, dressed in black as he is), shaking away the white flakes that shower down on him, then stops as he sees the coiannor's hair dark against the snow. He pauses for a moment, his breath steaming in the cold, and a strange expression of brittle determination passes over his face.

"Mae govannen," he says at last, his tone calm, and moves on as if to indifferently pass by.

"Mae govannen," Elsabet returns, slightly surprised as she stands up to look at the archer once again. She pauses, struggling inwardly as she places the root into a pouch of her satchel. "Morthalion," she calls after him before he has gone more than a few paces. "I would like to speak with you, if you have a moment. I know we've been avoiding each other for the last little while, and this is awkward, but I just need to say some things to you before you go."

"Awkward?" asks Morthalion, smiling coldly. "I thought I was simply avoiding you as a matter of course, but no matter." He brushes more snow from his sleeves as he stops, turning to face the coiannor and slinging his bow at his shoulder again. "What would you like to say? I can think of better places to say them, but all the same, speak as you will. Actually -" the archer purses his lips briefly - "there -is- something I should like to say to you, as well. Go on."

"Well," Elsabet begins, eyes focused firmly on the ground as she tries to sort out her words. "I am sorry for speaking as I did in front of Lothluin -- my words were true and honest but I should not have said them, perhaps not in that situation and maybe not ever. I ..." She pauses again, and sighs at her own inability to articulate, simply turning to open a different compartment of her bag. She pulls out a small black box, recognizeable as the box with the bird in it that Celeborn gave to Lothluin for a Noble Cause. "Lothluin did not steal this," she explains, holding it out. "It was hers to give. I do not want it, though. Will you please take it?"

The Feanorian arches a brow. "And what will I do with a singing bird, coiannor?" he asks with a shake of his head. "Use it for target practice? Keep it, or return it to Lothluin. I will be carrying enough with me to the North as is." Morthalion puts up a brief hand to refuse the box, then goes on with studied chillness in his voice. "On that matter, girl, I should prefer it if you do not drag out the ... comments that you voiced to Lothluin. There is no need. I know as well as you that it was an idle fancy, so leave it at that, hmm? Now. Something of import."

He flicks the hand that refuses the box, then drops it at his side. "My father has expressed a wish to involve himself somewhat with your stonemasons to a degree - entirely convincing me that he is lost beyond reason, but I shall not dwell on that - and he would be much obliged if your father could acquaint him with some of Nargothrond's works as such. Will you bring it to his attention?"

Elsabet is, if anything, relieved that Morthalion has decided to set that matter aside. She returns the box reluctantly to her satchel, and nods. "I will speak with him," she says quietly. "He will be more than happy to share what knowledge he has in the matter." The healer tucks a lock of hair absently behind her ear and then continues. "So you will be going forth with the scouting group and departing from there, I have heard?"

"Yes. The more Feanori in that group, the better," Morthalion replies acidly. "I do not know why your Aran makes such a pretence of investigating the possibility of war when it is the furthest thing from his mind, though I cannot say that even his having the spine to admit his intention would lend him any respect. But perhaps the news that the scouting party shall bring back may at least sting a little shame into his heart." The archer's cold gaze turns slightly distant, as if seeing icy walls in his mind's eye already. "I shall hear of it one way or the other in Himring."

Elsabet closes her eyes for a moment, exercising extreme self-control and not remarking on Morthalion's acid words. "I would not presume to know the Aran's mind, nor anybody's," she says calmly. "But Morthalion, my cousin shall be going forth on this as well -- I know already what you think of him, so please do not remark upon it. Will you watch over him, though, on the way up? He does tend to find trouble, even though he can always find his way out of it just as easily."

Morthalion's lip curls. "Others drag him out of it, you mean," he retorts coldly. "Yes, I shall watch him, though you would do better to ask a less craven heart than I, surely? Is not bold Rilluin going on the journey, or are his talents better served at home?" His lip curling further into a sneer, the Feanorian brushes it aside. "Do not fear for your cousin. I have never known anyone so able to escape danger, however much by pure luck and not merit."

"I have not spoken with Rilluin since we stopped courting, which was several weeks ago," Elsabet says, a look of pain coming briefly over her features before she fights it down again. "I will try not to worry over Curundil," she adds neutrally, twisting her fingers around the edge of her cloak.

"What a terrible loss his conversation must be," says Morthalion with a short laugh. "As for your cousin, well, that is a good resolution. I should save your worry instead for those who run after him trying to save his skin. I might add, coiannor -" he gives a fleeting, icy smile - "I might add that in spite of your request to 'watch' him, that is all that I will do if he persists in anything foolish enough to endanger the rest. The journey northward will be hazardous enough without too many of his self-inflicted mishaps."

"Almost as terrible as the loss of yours," Elsabet returns, almost sharply. Even her patience in dealing with Morthalion has boundaries, and he is coming very close to crossing them. Yet, taking a pause, Elsabet does something rather inexplicable. She suddenly steps forward and goes up on her tiptoes in order to quickly kiss Morthalion on the cheek, in the fashion that she often greets her kinsmen.

Only the sharpest of glances, even among the Eldar, would be able to catch the brief glint that flashes in Morthalion's eyes as Elsabet lightly kisses him - a soft, regretful, sorrowful spark, quelled almost immediately by the archer's purpose today. The light that he kindles in its place is haughty and cold, his expression no less so, and he takes a pace back from her as she settles from her tiptoes once more. "Coiannor," he says in a sharp, deliberate voice, "I should rather that you recalled your place and mine. I do not know why my comings and goings are of such interest to you, but I assure you that the reverse is not true in the least. We may not be enemies, but we are not friends - nor shall be. Let it alone!"

"Oh, so a little affection didn't kill you," Elsabet returns, raising her eyebrows and setting her hands bossily on her hips. "How surprising. Archer, that was a gesture I use to greet all of my friends, and I will count you among mine even if I am not yours. I will let it be when you are gone, and not before. I will miss you, even if you shall entirely forget about me and all of Nargothrond." A little quirk of her eyebrow puntuates a silent "so there" onto the end of her sentance, though she leaves it unsaid.

"As you please, silly girl," replies Morthalion flatly. "Call me what you like, remember me as you will - I am irritated but no longer surprised by the Nargothrondhrim's perverse treatment of reality. They are your thoughts to waste, not mine." The archer turns away as if in annoyance, though in actual fact he takes the opportunity to rest his lying eyes for a moment. "The North will be such a relief after this place ..."

"I hope it will be, Morthalion," Elsabet says quietly, now switching to speak in Quenya. "You have been ill-content here since you first arrived, and if you will find happiness within Himring's fortress than I am glad to see you go. I wonder, though, if you know yet how to find happiness anywhere. Do you have friends in Himring?"

Morthalion looks back at her coldly and answers in kind, never much enamoured of Sindarin to begin with. "A friend, as I understand it, is little more than one who takes advantage of you, and of whom you take advantage in kind," he answers with an indifferent shake of his head. "I have no need for that. I do not need help and no-one needs help from me, so what of it? Besides, there is little point in placing any reliance on one who may well die the next day. Perhaps it is safer in Nargothrond," he adds with contempt, "but there is still little point to it. I was content in Himring. That was enough."

"You do not understand it, then," Elsabet replies, shaking her head. "I did not see you ever take advantage of Lothluin, yet I have seen you two together enough to know that you would count her as a friend if you were not afraid of the word. Well, it is no matter. Have a safe journey, Morthalion, and fare well." Looking reluctantly at the archer for a moment, Elsabet hesitates before simply turning and walking off, tracing back her careful path to Nargothrond.

"Namarie," returns Morthalion coolly, watching the coiannor depart without expression. Only when she is gone does the expression change to one of frustration and bitterness, and the Feanorian reaches back unthinkingly for the touch of his bow.

"Fool and coward, hmm?" he asks himself in sour amusement, the gaur's words never, never far from his lips. "More the former than the latter day by day, it seems. You have nothing to stay for, nothing, so do not delude yourself otherwise!" The archer's gaze remains fixed on the way Elsabet took back towards Nargothrond, however - wondering, perhaps, why his best efforts at being sarcastic and hateful seemed to do so little to sour her responses, or why the efforts themselves were so hard ...