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She smiled up at Emlin and took his hand. ‘My wrap, if you don’t mind. I’ve left it on the verandah railing. Would you mind terribly fetching it for me? I really don’t want to run into my brother at the moment.’
Teluyaviel watched as Emlin wove his way through the crowd. She was glad for these moments to herself. Like him, she found herself perplexed, her thoughts . . . not exactly confused, just pushed into new channels.
What exactly did he mean to say to her? They had only met this evening. And that by chance, not design.
She picked one of the small flowers from the vase on the table and twirled it about in her fingers, the rhythmic motion focusing the direction of her thoughts. There was something so . . . she could not think of the exact word.
‘Meldo . . .’ she whispered to herself . . . ‘dear friend . . .’ She smiled, thinking of Farael.
‘Melda,’ she said aloud, trying another word on her tongue. A random breeze made her shiver a little. Telu’s brow furrowed as she thought on it. ‘Melda . . .’
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Young she was and yet not so. The braids of her dark hair were touched by no frost, her white arms and clear face were flawless and smooth, and the light of stars was in her bright eyes, grey as a cloudless night . . .
Last edited by Undómë; 02-05-2006 at 04:09 AM.
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