A young elven woman stands before the door to a pale stone villa, her golden eyes fixed on the latch. Her fingers wiggle, clenching and unclenching before one hand raises to pat her black hair, checking to see if it is still smooth. She bites her lower lip, then breathes in sharply as she realizes it has been split with previous worries. A moment more, another deep breath, and she finally reaches out to open the door and enter.
Her first bare footfalls in the entryway are trepidatious and quiet, and she looks left and right to observe her surroundings; the villa, at first appearance, seems empty. With this assurance, she strides forward, peering through each archway as she passes until she reaches one covered by a translucent curtain. She stops, murmuring a quiet prayer to her Maker before her fingers wrap around the edge of the draped fabric, the silk whispering as she pulls it aside to reveal the interior of the room.
Seated by a window, angled to best catch the afternoon light on the embroidery stand before her, is an elderly elven woman so delicate the sun appears to stream through her, diaphanous layered blue-gray robes doing little to add substance to the frail form. There are perhaps a few more silver strands in the floor-sweeping dark plait, a few more heavy memories held in that languid gaze, but there is no mistaking the sitter.
“O'si?”
She speaks barely above a whisper, but the ethereal woman hears, her needle-hand drifting down as pale green eyes look up.
“Elia?”
It's as if a levee breaks. The young woman springs forward, crossing the room in three bounds to throw her arms around the seated elf. “Silsil, I'm so sorry! I wouldn't have left without—” She tries to force her way through the explanation she'd turned over and over in her head for the last month, really she does, but her intentions crumble to wracking sobs that shake both women.
“You have been much-missed, little wren.” Thin arms wrap around the young elf in a maternal embrace for a long moment, then releases her, placing her hands on the younger woman's upper arms and taking the opportunity to look her over. “We thought you must have run to your death. When Thion's letter reached us to say he had found you alive and whole, I could scarce believe it; Nechtan told us the island was full of untold dangers.”
“I doubled back to put off the scent; I didn't sail away until two winters ago. I promise, I never wanted to make you worry.”
A thumb brushes away a tear on the younger woman's golden cheek. “You are stronger than any of us gave you credit for. I only wish we had seen it earlier.” The older woman's head then tilts slightly, brows furrowing. “Oh, little wren, you've cut your hair.” Porcelain-fine fingers move to fondly stroke the midnight tresses.
“I had to, Silsil. It will grow back; it was even shorter before.”
“It seems you have quite the story to tell, then.”
“I do. But first.” She stands to her full height, taking the older woman's hands in her own, giving them the gentlest of squeezes. “O'si, there's someone I'd like you to meet, who's been waiting very anxiously to meet you.”