Promise
Ingwë looked around the room and took in the darkness imposed by the thick curtains and the dead stillness of the air since the drapes prevented both light and breeze.
At Finwë’s words he stepped more firmly into the rooms and took a seat opposite to his friend.
"Do you have a headache?" he solicited, reaching for areason that his friend had been reading in the dark, "shall I call for a healer or some water?"
There was an absence of a child’s voice and noise. He looked around the dark room again, his keen gaze piercing the gloom for this was nothing compared to the smothering blackness that had come upon the lakes of their youth. “Where is your son?”
"A small one." Finwë waved a hand as he sat back down. "And I can answer the other questions as one: my son is fetching water now. I should be fine after that, so do not bother with a healer for me."
He sighed, settled into the chair as if he wished to become one with it, and then rolled up his scroll. "I admit," he said, "I do not remember it being so bright here. But it is to be expected so close to the trees." Finishing his tidying, he tipped the scroll back into its tube and capped it off.
"I hope you and your people have been well," he added. For a dizzying second he wondered if he had paused too long between sentences.
