Attn. mommies, especially.

[broodingelf]

Tonight there's music, soft and bitter-sweet, floating through the building. At the source, were one to follow it, you'd find an elf in incongruously modern dress sitting in a window-seat, drawing music out of his small harp while gazing out at the nightscape. This languishing poet look is just habitual for him; he probably invented it.

Comments

[redhairedwisdom]

It is possible she knows exactly who the player is the second she hears the music, but either way she follows it quietly, her traveling boots making only the slightest sound as she looks in the door. She leans against it, watching him play, rememorizing his face- he is her son, there is no doubt about that, but he is different, more so than any of her other sons.

[broodingelf]

That's what not dying'll do for you. When he notices her there, the music changes before his posture does: inviting, welcoming, reunion; and then he turns to look at her, letting the music fade away. Soft: "Ammë."

[redhairedwisdom]

"Macalaurë." She takes a step towards him, almost hesitant; her instinct is to rush forward, to embrace him, but she is still too unsure of this place - and her own sanity - to do so.

[broodingelf]

He smiles, a lopsided halfway-smile that's also habit, if possibly a new one since last she saw him, and sits up properly, setting the harp aside and swinging both legs over the edge of the window-seat "So you are here." It's almost a question.