A Simple Wish
By Claudio
"Ithilbor." Celeborn let the name hang on his tongue, drawing out each
syllable as if it were syrup. The councillor who bore that name sat
across from him, some feet away, sipping wine from a small silver cup.
The two were in Celeborn's bedroom. They had been there only a short
time, though already the fire burned low in the grate.
"Is that your true name, or one given you?" Celeborn asked.
"It was given me by my parents," the councillor Ithilbor said with a hint
of a smile. "Or so I have been led to believe."
"Of course," Celeborn said quietly. He stared down at his hands to
mask the inexplicable blush rising in his cheeks. Ithilbor, he had
found, had ways of making him sound foolish even as he made his best effort
at carefully choosing each word he spoke.
Ithilbor shifted forward in his seat and tilted his head to let the last
trickle of wine slide down his throat. "If you're trying to judge my
age by my name," he said as he set his cup on the table at his side, "I can
aid you insofar as admitting that I am younger than you, as you suspect.
But perhaps not less wise?"
"Perhaps," muttered Celeborn. He quickly switched the subject.
"I hear you plan to leave again tomorrow."
Shrugging, Ithilbor leaned back into his chair. "Yes, alas. If
it were up to me I would choose to stay indefinitely, but you know my wife
hates this forest and would go back east as soon as possible."
Celeborn had met Ithilbor's wife once, years earlier. He struggled
to remember her face, which he pictured in his mind as thin and angular with
large eyes and a small, unsmiling mouth. The memory lit a pang of jealousy
in his heart, an uncomfortable pinprick of dislike for the lady, though he
was loath to admit to himself why. More than once he had wished she
would simply stay in the east on her own, and leave Ithilbor to his councils
in peace.
But he pushed the soreness aside as he called up a shadow of a smile, and
looking up at his companion once more he asked, "And how is Edenhil?"
"She is well, thank you," Ithilbor answered. A smile crept up over
his lips as well, though it was more curious, and deviously knowing.
His eyes sparked with secrets.
"I am glad," said Celeborn. His words came out unintentionally flat
and hard.
"And your fine lady?"
"Away," Celeborn said, and gave no elaboration.
Ithilbor pursed his lips to stifle a growing grin. "I am sorry to hear
that," he said in a voice that gave no hint of disappointment.
"I had very much looked forward to finally meeting her. It is strange,
is it not, that my visits always coincide with your lady's absences?"
Celeborn nodded. "Mm. Very strange."
"Tell me about her, Celeborn," Ithilbor said. "I would like to at the
least have a clue. Are we not friends?"
Ithilbor's question, unquestioning as it seemed, stuck like a pin. Were
the two of them friends? He never knew. They were acquaintances,
surely, and they called each other on familiar terms. But true friendship
had always remained elusive.
"Of course we are friends," said Celeborn.
"Good."
"I have known you for..." Celeborn paused, trying to recall the exact
number. He could not. "Years," he finished.
"We have never spoken like this, have we?" Ithilbor asked. "I mean,
one on one, in a private space. I don't recall ever having spoken to
you outside of court. Or if I have, it was briefly, in a corridor.
This is much nicer, is it not?"
"Yes," Celeborn answered obediently, though his answer was hardly the truth.
He wondered if Ithilbor could sense his discomfort or his lie. He recalled
their past conversations, one by one, each of which had taken place around
the schedules of councils and had lasted mere blessed moments. Those
meetings, short and impersonal as they were, had always been awkward enough,
as if something dreaded and unspoken hid beneath the frail shells of their
bodies. A secret yearned to be set free. The longer they spoke,
and the closer they came to abandoning formality, the harder it was to contain.
Now each passing second chipped away at Celeborn's defensive wall.
"Ithilbor..." he said. Further words formed at his throat, though he
choked them back.
"Yes, Celeborn?"
There were a thousand things to say. A hundred phrases that could easily
slide through a thin crack in a melting façade. He could word
it elegantly or say it outright, that nagging want in his mind and heart
that made his body tingle and shiver as if chilled while his palms sweated
with an inner burning heat. The idea frightened him, but what was fear
to an Elven lord? He could speak if he wished. It was his right.
He stood, and stared at the smugly grinning face of his companion.
"I am..."
"You are...?" Ithilbor stood as well, taking an expectant step forward
as he licked his lips.
"I'm sorry, but I am tired and it is late," said Celeborn. The words
came out quickly, more reflex than will, and as soon as they were spoken
the crack in the wall snapped shut. He was encased again. "I
hate to rush you out," he added, "but I would sleep now."
"Of course," said Ithilbor. His smile faltered and fell, so little
that the change was hardly noticeable, but still it fell.
"I don't mean to be rude, you know, and I hope you understand..."
Ithilbor held up his hand. "No, I am the thoughtless one, imposing
on you at such a time. Of course I understand. I understand entirely."
With his arrogant grin, he turned and walked slowly to the door. "Sleep
well," he said, and glanced briefly back to Celeborn's stony face.
"I will," said Celeborn, and he looked to his shoes.
"Good night."
And then, with only a few effective words, Ithilbor was gone. Celeborn
exhaled a long breath as the door clicked shut.
"I am safe," he told himself. "I have done no wrong, not now, and I
will not. Not even if he returns, years from now. I have strength
to overcome him. But will he return? His visits are as difficult
to predict as his thoughts, and just as dangerous. He would seek to
do me harm, I think, should I see him again. He would try to cheat
me. I can see it in his eyes. He is like a serpent, smooth and
sleek and poisonous, and do I have the power to fight him? What would
he do, should he return? What would I?"
He lay back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling that glittered in patterns
like the night sky, and voiced a simple wish.
"Oh stars," he whispered, "let him return one day."
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