Misfits

Part 25

Posted: October 2003
Author: Kharessa Bloodrose

*****

The lack of furnishings granted the talan the illusion of space, but an illusion was all it was; Melpomaen's talan was little more than a divided box set in the lower section of the towering mellyrn. It consisted of three rooms: a tiny bedchamber into which his bed and trunk barely fit, a kitchen crowded by a small round table and single chair, and a living room that boasted a couch and an end table upon which Melpomaen had set a small lamp. The only decorations were the tragic theatrical mask Arwen had once given him for his birthday and a sword with a decorative handle that he'd hung over the tiny fireplace.

In spite of his efforts to make the talan a home, the nearly empty rooms were impersonal, as warm and inviting as a nondescript single chamber in a middle class inn. Once the initial excitement of having a place of his own had worn off, Melpomaen had found himself loath to spend much time there. Sitting by the central fountain with
a book felt better than lying on his couch. Taking his meals at a nearby tavern was preferable to cooking meals in his own silent kitchen.

He had just returned from his nightly visit to Peony's house. It had become a matter of principle to him, to take his scraps to the small, green house after supper if for no other reason than to spite the elf maid who'd previously warned him off. He had not encountered her since that first night, and he suspected that she had intentionally changed her hours to avoid him.

--Are you satisfied with yourself, that you brought the proudest March Warden of `Lorien to tears?--

Her words echoed in his mind as he carried his plate to the kitchen basin, washed it, and stacked it in the small drying rack. He was not satisfied, not with himself or with Haldir, nor with the tepid welcome he'd received, or with the tiny talan that he could not bring himself to call home. Melpomaen felt as if he were doing no more than playing house while he waited - waited for Haldir, who was not a pastel tinged memory but a real person, a person who hurt, a person who had cried. When he thought of Haldir's tears it certainly was not satisfaction that he felt, but bitter shame.

He did not bother to light a candle as he crossed the kitchen to his bedchamber, nor did he make more than a desultory effort to hit the wicker laundry basket as he stripped out of his clothing and tossed them in the basket's general direction. His sheets needed to
be washed, too, but he closed his eyes and lay down in the wider bed than the one he'd grown used to in Imladris with only a sigh of resignation. This was not the Last Homely House, nor was it the Royal Talan; there were no chambermaids coming to take away the dirty linens and laundry. There was only his self, a small metal tub, a washboard, and a wringer. It had hurt to let go of part of his carefully saved money on such items, but Melpomaen had still found that preferable to carrying his laundry down to the river, there to beat stains out of soiled robes on a flat rock.

Melpomaen had thought that he'd managed to save a decent amount of his pay, but inside of a week in Caras Galadhon he'd known his error. Life in the Last Homely House had been cheap and easy. He certainly hadn't had to bother with his own wash, and meals had
been served in the dining hall three times a day. Three sets of robes, burgundy and green, had been provided for the advisors' support staff. Most of the money he'd earned had been his, free and clear, and he'd thought himself very thrifty with it. His only weakness had been a predilection for new clothing, and Melpomaen often thought sourly that clothes were now the only things he'd never have to worry about lacking. He currently had a trunk crammed full of them, a wardrobe in which the hangers and rack were eschewed in favor of tight folding and stacking, and a corner in which a tower of leggings, trousers, tunics, and shirts teetered precariously ceilingward. The three hooks on the wall held his new blue and silver work robes – everything else was hopelessly wrinkled.

In Imladris there had been meat with his supper every night. In Caras Galadhon he supposed he could snare his own small game if he chose to – and if he had time aside from work and the countless little household chores he'd never given a thought to in Imladris. Otherwise, there was the market, and he'd quickly realized that meat
would only fit the budget if he cut back on it to once a week. In Imladris he'd routinely bathed with scented soaps and dried himself with large fluffy towels, had helped himself to the identical white bathrobes that always hung in the bathhouse. In Caras Galadhon, there was scented soap for those who could afford it, but for all else there was either plain lye soap to be bought, or hours spent over hot, stinking vats to make one's own. Melpomaen didn't even want to think about the cost of large fluffy towels or white bathrobes. The same applied to creams and lotions, jewelry, hair ornaments, paper, ink, books, shoes, furniture… everything.

Melpomaen glared up into the darkness, skin shifting against rough sheets, and thought of Haldir and how he had managed with two elflings in his care. Meat would never have been an issue, nor for one of Haldir's exemplary archery skills, but everything else… Melpomaen knew that the brothers sent their laundry out with one of the city laundresses, and that she took care of their mending as well as the washing. He knew that between the three of them they could well afford the few luxuries he'd seen in their talan: Haldir's set of kitchen knives with the pearl inlaid handles, Rumil's strawberry scented hair soap, Orophin's set of window sill crystal figurines. That had not always been the case, though. Once, not that long ago, it had all been Haldir's responsibility.

Melpomaen had no idea what a Guardian drew in terms of pay. Better than what he himself was making, he knew, but he could not imagine that it had been enough for three. Had Haldir learned to wash and sew, to cook, and clean, and make those household necessities that the money would not cover? He himself knew how to do many of those things, but could never find the time. How had Haldir found the time, between watching an infant and doing his duty to the city? He imagined Haldir exhausted, dragging himself through his daily rounds with circles under his eyes and a barely perceptible slump to his posture, an absence of that proud strut he'd grown so accustomed to seeing.

Had he cried then, Melpomaen wondered. Closing his eyes he could envision it; Haldir with his face in his hands, crying nearly silently at the kitchen table after Rumil and Orophin were sound asleep. Had he stared at his red-eyed reflection in his bedroom mirror afterward, wondering how long it would last, how long he himself would last, when he would be free? There had not been parties and dances and tavern get-togethers for Haldir; instead, there had been hours filled with the crucial mundane habits of a parent and home owner, trips to the market and trips to the river, children to feed and clothe and tend. Perhaps that was why Haldir never taxed Rumil for his adventurous spirit and questionable interests; Haldir was pleased that Rumil was having a chance to enjoy those things that he himself had not.

Still, it seemed to Melpomaen that Haldir had never let go of that time, had not recognized the moment when his freedom had been returned to him. Haldir was not old as elves reckoned time; his youth was far from past. Yet, still he remained, a dour presence in a talan that could be filled with laughter, grimly tackling responsibility with his own mixture of resignation and pride, no longer in expectation of anything at all. He had no ear for the comments that spoke of his courage and skill, nor for those that touched on his looks in curiosity rather than mockery. Certainly there had been those who spoke cruelly of him in Caras Galadhon, but the more Melpomaen thought of it the more he remembered that most of the talk was not malicious; careless, perhaps, but not aimed to hurt. The idea that there was not a single maid in all of Caras Galadhon who would desire the strong, reliable, expert March Warden was purely ridiculous. It was Haldir who refused to see the truth, not the people around him. And then Melpomaen had arrived.

Melpomaen frowned as he thought of that. Yes, he had arrived, and perhaps possibilities had begun to emerge for Haldir, thoughts and imaginings that he'd previously deemed impossible or unrealistic, even frivolous. Perhaps he had sensed his own freedom in Melpomaen's smile and touch, begun to see that some of his responsibilities had been lifted. He himself had wanted an adventure, but Haldir had wanted more, had finally dared to dream of more, and when Melpomaen had left that dream had been shattered.

"I'm sorry, Haldir," he whispered into the darkness. "Truly, I am, and I swear that I will make this up to you. Somehow."

*****

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