[piosenniel]

Dryea Betrayed

Ecthelion’s words rang in his mind as he paused in the archway that led into the ballroom. The steward had been most generous, he thought, upon consideration. He would have the chance to redeem himself, and to keep his family from any shame.

Athadan’s gaze slid around the room, looking at the guards positioned discretely here and there. They gave no indication that they noted his entrance. But he knew that somewhere there were those whose eyes watched his every move.

He could feel his heart thump faster and his mouth go dry as he stepped just beyond the entrance and scanned the room for her. Like a venomous viper weaving back and forth before her prey, he was both drawn to her and loathed her. No, loathed himself, he thought, for being so foolish. A few more assignations and he knew now he would have outlived his usefulness to her, become dangerous to her and her cause. He would be dead at her hands, discarded once he had served her purposes.

There she was! In a small group of ladies and their gentlemen on the right hand side of the ballroom. He paused for a moment to take in her presence. She was holding court, all eyes were on her – the men in admiration, the ladies half in admiration and half in jealousy. And what a mockery her dress was, he thought, noting the dark color suggesting mourning, and the cut and decoration of it suggesting she was still very much in the game. Athadan shook himself mentally, seeing her clearly for the first time, without longing. What a fool he had been!

She glanced up at him, and he caught her eye. His hand moved to the breast of his tunic, where the message lay hidden beneath, and he nodded imperceptibly at her. Her eyes followed him, he knew, as he went upstairs, and into one of the alcoves on the far end of the balustrade that rimmed the upper walk about the ballroom.

She took her time coming to him. Making her excuses, he was sure, to all those who stopped her and offered their sympathies. Her perfume drifted into the alcove before her. What once had smelled so enticing now reeked in his nostrils with the smell of deceit.

Dryea stood before him, her hard glittering eyes fixing him like a bug on a collector’s wall. ‘Well . . . ,’ she said softly, holding out her hand to him, her foot tapping impatiently on the parquet floor.

‘A message from Ecthelion to Thorongil, m’Lady,’ he said reaching for the slender, rolled vellum beneath his tunic. ‘He has agreed to Thorongil’s request to send ships and troops south to quell any chance of problems spreading north toward Gondor.’

Dryea’s eyes went wide at his summary of the message. She took it quickly from his outstretched hand, removing the dark blue ribbon that bound it, her eyes scanning quickly to the bottom for the Steward’s seal. Satisfied it was real enough, she dismissed him with a wave of her hand, reminding him to come back shortly to retrieve it once she’d read and memorized the contents. Without a word of thanks, she turned back to the letter, greedily reviewing the details of dates, and numbers, and strategies.

Athadan bowed slightly to her as she waved him off. ‘My pleasure to have served you once again,’ he said in parting. He exited the alcove drawing the curtains to it closed to give her privacy. He stood for a moment outside the alcove, and drew a great breath, letting it out slowly.

‘It is done,’ he said, a grim look of relief showing on his face. He strode quickly from the house, heading for his quarters. He would need to pack and see to his weapons . . . he would be leaving soon . . .

[ October 07, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]