Inyaron: Estelhari in Midsummer
(more to add later - remember to tidy/format ALL entries from today too)
Estelhari lay on her side in the moss by the little creek, her head cradled on one arm to watch the leaves go spinning past in the eddies. The air was still thick here, but far, far cooler than the open swelter further down the open valley slope, and she could smell the shy scent of the soil over the bold eucalypt-twang for a change.
Footsteps rustled in the leaf-litter further behind her. She turned only her head, reluctant to shift now that she was cool, and nodded approvingly when she saw the party of her attendants and Arathalian's following him towards the creek. "This is a good place!"
"I always pick good places," replied Arathalian, though he seemed distracted. She saw with faint exasperation that he had his scrying-mirror in hand. "Well, Ulusci picked it, I think, but it's my idea by princely right. -Where's Osychos?"
"I'm sure you'll see him at the feast."
"Not what I asked, but never mind; you can save up your annual helpful comment as my Midsummer boon or something."
"You're genuinely talented when it comes to turning Midsummer Eve into just any other day, Arathalian," she replied, dry, turning her head back to watch the less predictable creek. "Every year."
"I don't like Midsummer Eve," he said indifferently. "I'm sure I may have mentioned that every year, too."
"Yes." Estelhari reached out a finger to intercept a small soldier-beetle marching towards the water, coaxing and bullying it back towards the undergrowth instead. "I suppose too much laughter and too many smiles get a bit on the nerves after a while."
Arathalian laughed. "Is that really what you think they are, Estelhari?"
"Well, I suppose not." But they used to be, she thought, cornered suddenly by refreshed memories of Corruth. Midsummer ought be spent in one's home with one's family and friends.
She dropped her hand, leaving the determined beetle to its own devices, longing for light-strung jarra-darkness - or, failing that, the comfort and refuge of her bower. Years spent in the seat of Inyaron had brought her no closer to Canuel and its people; too many dangers, too many politics cluttered the roads to real friendship. Better to be lonely alone with her beautiful garden than to feel that solitary distance amidst a crowd of laughing, smiling others.
Yes, well, can't be helped, she thought, suddenly annoyed at her melancholy. It is Midsummer Eve and I will make do. No - I will enjoy it, the same as every year. I may not be surrounded by friends, but I'm surrounded by countrymen and women.
"Come here," she instructed her attendants abruptly, all of them still hovering on the sidelines, and proceded to deck out their bewildered heads and wings with illumina.
"Who's going to see any of that until it's dark?" asked Arathalian, still looking into his mirror.
"I know you have this instinctive drive to spoil anything resembling joy or cheer in others," Estelhari replied placidly, "but I'd advise you to resist the urge today. For your own safety."
Arathalian laughed again, less sardonically this time, and waved a hand. "No, no, no, I was only saying. Not another word. Go, fly, spread delight and wonder amongst the populace."
"I'll do that when they get here," she answered. "It's too hot to go spreading any wonder."
Estelhari lay on her side in the moss by the little creek, her head cradled on one arm to watch the leaves go spinning past in the eddies. The air was still thick here, but far, far cooler than the open swelter further down the open valley slope, and she could smell the shy scent of the soil over the bold eucalypt-twang for a change.
Footsteps rustled in the leaf-litter further behind her. She turned only her head, reluctant to shift now that she was cool, and nodded approvingly when she saw the party of her attendants and Arathalian's following him towards the creek. "This is a good place!"
"I always pick good places," replied Arathalian, though he seemed distracted. She saw with faint exasperation that he had his scrying-mirror in hand. "Well, Ulusci picked it, I think, but it's my idea by princely right. -Where's Osychos?"
"I'm sure you'll see him at the feast."
"Not what I asked, but never mind; you can save up your annual helpful comment as my Midsummer boon or something."
"You're genuinely talented when it comes to turning Midsummer Eve into just any other day, Arathalian," she replied, dry, turning her head back to watch the less predictable creek. "Every year."
"I don't like Midsummer Eve," he said indifferently. "I'm sure I may have mentioned that every year, too."
"Yes." Estelhari reached out a finger to intercept a small soldier-beetle marching towards the water, coaxing and bullying it back towards the undergrowth instead. "I suppose too much laughter and too many smiles get a bit on the nerves after a while."
Arathalian laughed. "Is that really what you think they are, Estelhari?"
"Well, I suppose not." But they used to be, she thought, cornered suddenly by refreshed memories of Corruth. Midsummer ought be spent in one's home with one's family and friends.
She dropped her hand, leaving the determined beetle to its own devices, longing for light-strung jarra-darkness - or, failing that, the comfort and refuge of her bower. Years spent in the seat of Inyaron had brought her no closer to Canuel and its people; too many dangers, too many politics cluttered the roads to real friendship. Better to be lonely alone with her beautiful garden than to feel that solitary distance amidst a crowd of laughing, smiling others.
Yes, well, can't be helped, she thought, suddenly annoyed at her melancholy. It is Midsummer Eve and I will make do. No - I will enjoy it, the same as every year. I may not be surrounded by friends, but I'm surrounded by countrymen and women.
"Come here," she instructed her attendants abruptly, all of them still hovering on the sidelines, and proceded to deck out their bewildered heads and wings with illumina.
"Who's going to see any of that until it's dark?" asked Arathalian, still looking into his mirror.
"I know you have this instinctive drive to spoil anything resembling joy or cheer in others," Estelhari replied placidly, "but I'd advise you to resist the urge today. For your own safety."
Arathalian laughed again, less sardonically this time, and waved a hand. "No, no, no, I was only saying. Not another word. Go, fly, spread delight and wonder amongst the populace."
"I'll do that when they get here," she answered. "It's too hot to go spreading any wonder."