[Novnarwen]

Tarkan

Finally the Priest had dozed off and lay silently on the cold stone floor fast asleep. He had been awake all night, sitting quietly by himself, enjoying the tranquillity, thinking. The banquet had not been what he had hoped for. He'd not taken advantage of this feast to talk to the Emissary, or approach him in any other way. Naturally, he regretted this. It bothered him that he could not yet form a fair opinion of him, as he did not yet know what he thought of him; on which ground could he trust or distrust him? He had wondered. The whole night through, he had reproached himself of not contacting with the Stranger. He could have, but he hadn't. Instead, Tarkan had watched Zamara taking the initiative he should have taken and headed over to the royal table, exchanging a few words with the newly arrived man. He himself had sat still on his cushion, as if glued to the floor.

In his dreams the images that roamed around in his head were the same; Zamara rising briskly, clutching her staff in one hand, walking with stern steps to greet the Emissary. The face of the Emissary glowed in an odd light, being surrounded with some queer figures he could not make out properly. The King, his half-brother, was talking and listening attentively to every word the stranger said, his eyes widening as soon as something of interest was being said. His body grew tense due to the curiosity; what were the King and the Emissary talking about? The image of Gjeela made him relax; she had been stunningly beautiful at the banquet. He had watched her whenever had had the chance to. He had rested his eyes on her charming face, of where her hazel brown eyes dominated. The sapphire blue robe she had worn had fitted her perfectly and the confidence she reflected was admirable. Would the King let him, the Priest, have her?

A smile passed his lips, as the rays of the sun pierced through the thick velvet curtains and woke him up. Quickly, he concluded that it was early morning, which meant that he hadn’t slept long. He rose hurriedly; he was still wearing his fine clothing he had worn at the banquet the evening before. Therefore, he sought out the dressing room where he could find something suitable for today's events. Finding a dark purple mantle, a pair of dark trousers and a white shirt, he dressed. In addition to this, he put on his finest pair of shoes; black leather boots, which nearly reached him to his knees. The priest watched himself in the mirror, tall as a tree, pale as the moon, but proud and lit with new energetic life. He blinked, seeing the reflection do the same. He did not know what it was, but he felt as light as a feather. It seemed to him that everything surrounding him was a long distance off; he was either too hungry to pay attention to anything around him, thus everything seeming so odd, or he was too tired to even realise that everything was the same.

Seeing that everything was to his satisfaction, he turned and left his apartments.

The first thing, or person, he sought out was Pelin; a man who also served at the temple, who hade become a good assistant and friend. Tarkan tasted the word 'friend', much astounded that he dared use it. Was Pelin a real friend, or was he just an asset he chose to use whenever he needed to? He frowned, not knowing the answer. Curious about this, it struck him that he didn't have any friends, or at least not any whom he knew of. Did Pelin think of him as a friend? Furthermore, what was a real friend?

He halted, stood silent for a few seconds, listening carefully with his ear glued to the door in hope to hear the sound of Pelin being awake and thus able to come with Tarkan. His eyes narrowed. He imagined hearing footsteps. Smiling faintly, he knocked excitedly at the door. Tarkan waited impatiently, soon hearing someone approach the door.

"Tarkan?!"

"Pelin, you're up!" The Priest said happily, stepping inside, pushing the man aside, slamming the door shut and locking it. "How wonderful," he continued, ignoring the expression Pelin bore in his face. (He looked immensely surprised by the unexpected visit.) Tarkan clapped his hands together, found his way to the biggest room of his 'friend's' apartment and settled down on the floor on one of the softest cushions. He looked at Pelin questioningly, expecting the man to do something. "Well . . ." he said, grinning;” get dressed! Hurry! Aren’t' you hungry?" Pelin nodded quickly, looking quite relieved that nothing seemed to be wrong. "Hurry then!" With that, the young man obeyed the Priest, but not without being slightly hesitant. It could be read in his eyes that he was greatly surprised by the Priest's behaviour. He had never shown up in Pelin's apartments like this before; it had always been the other way around, and if the priest had paid him a visit, something he almost never did, it had certainly not been this time of day.

Seeing Pelin off to get dressed, Tarkan took the advantage of this opportunity and got up from the cushion. He looked around. The young man seemed to own more than him, but even so he did not look wealthier. By the look of his furniture, tables, shelves, cushions and so forth, the man who lived her had a lack of taste. The room, and the furniture, reflected no elegance at all. Things were stowed away in the corners, as if hidden, but it was still visible for everyone's eyes to see. He made a grimace, curling his lips in distaste.

"Are you well?"

The sound of Pelin’s voice rung in his ears. The priest, busy walking around, picking up items and thinking of the man's poor taste, had not seen that Pelin had approached him. He smiled gently, not knowing what to say. Pelin's way of living was none of his business, and for a moment he wondered why he cared at all. Was this friendship, perhaps?

"All is well, Pelin. I'm just hungry," came the reply. "I see you are dressed! Excellent! Now let us leave!"