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‘I don’t really know what he seeks,’ said Orëmir, feeding a few more small sticks to the flames. ‘I wonder if he himself knows. Is it nostalgia? Does he want to look again upon a place where once all was possible? A place where the idea of the long defeat did not intrude? Does he seek to remember those feelings of valor and honor and what seemed right before history judged us and our actions?’ Orëmir looked thoughtfully into the last of the swirling liquid left in his cup as if to read the answers to his questions there.
‘Who can tell? Maybe he is simply tired of holding up the public mask of his long years. Here among the last of his companions and in this familiar place he can lay it down.’
‘Or maybe he is quite mad. We shouldn’t eliminate that possibility. Brilliantly mad . . . And he has no idea what he seeks . . . nor what might seek him, for that matter. Who can tell?’
He poured himself a little more tea. ‘What about you? Do you think you’ll find what you are seeking?’ Orëmir’s gaze drifted to where his brother stood. His eyes, soft with affection, carefully studied the familiar figure from head to foot. ‘I already know that I will not.’
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