[Child of the 7th Age]

With the assistance of others, Andreth had managed to complete the construction of both the lean-to and the sledge. It was then that she'd heard the strange sounds of impending battle, noises that she did not understand. Soon thereafter, Gandalf had come back, leading an Elf and and an Ent towards the campfire, both of whom had mysteriously materialized out of nowhere.

Strangely enough, it was the figure of the Elf that compelled her absolute attention. She stood rooted in one spot, unable to move, her eyes rivetted to his face.

There were other Elves along on this quest, and Andreth hadn't even had the courage to come up to one and introduce herself. But those Elves did not look quite as this one did. She felt as if she'd caught a glimpse of an ancient and majestic being, perhaps one of the firstcomers whose experiences lay far beyond her ken. Even from across the campfire, she could sense the sorrow and remembrance that came flooding out from his mind.

As one whose livelihood depended on the creation of tapestries and other fine textiles, she had learnt much of the ancient tales of Beleriand and Numenor. Time and again, she had sat beside the fireplace in her humble home, with her deft fingers pulling the warp and weft, creating bittersweet images drawn directly from ages and places long consigned to dust and yearning.

Andreth's tongue was not gifted, but she had eyes to see what others overlooked. Gazing at this Elf, she felt as if she had passed through a portal of time, and now found herself looking upon one whose true place lay in a distant, golden age. And because that age had sadly passed, he seemed singularly out-of-place, ripped loose from the fabric of time.

A strange part of Andreth's brain whispered to her. This Elf should be in Elvenhome, but he has not the heart to go there. And then an even stranger idea popped into her head. This is how Adela felt when she first looked upon the Elf Maladil. Not seeing him with love but as a kinsman and a friend, whose doom was so very different than her own.

Andreth had no desire whatsover to repeat Adela's mistake. And, in her own mind, it was a mistake. A mistake of cosmic proportions that had reverberated even to her own day. But, to somehow win the trust and friendship of this being, so different than herself, as her namesake Andreth had won the respect of Finrod, that would be a very great thing indeed.

On the very first day of the journey, Gandalf had called her an 'Elf-friend.' She had not understood that, and thought it might be some lighthearted compliment that could safely be ignored. Bethberry had told her quite otherwise, sternly asserting that Gandalf did not say such things without reason. Perhaps the reason was here. Perhaps, she was meant to be a friend and somehow help this Elf on his way.

The Elf was in deep discourse with Gandalf, sitting on a log near the fire. Then, without warning, he turned for one instant towards Andreth. He took in her flame red hair, her pretty but common mortal face with its green eyes and freckles.

Andreth saw Nardol scowl to the depths of his being. He whose hroa and fea were tied to Arda seemed to look upon this Child of Man with intense disdain. It was clear to Andreth that this Elf had little friendliness for those whom the ancient tales commonly called 'guests'.

She said nothing, but pulled out a small tapestry block, and began feverishly working at it.

[ December 03, 2002: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]