Each day he stayed, Bainith found himself wanting not to leave a little bit more.
He had purposely never stayed long in Elven cities because of the difficulties of communication and the expectation of protocol between Elves. More than once he had been politely chuckled at, cheeks glowing, stuttering his apologies, never able to successfully excuse himself in Sindarin or Quenya. In Rivendell, however, everyone was bilingual, trilingual, and more, and Bainith had no trouble communicating with others.
The sights and sounds of a realm so fair were amazing to him, and he found he could learn more here in one minute of exposure to the culture than he could from ten books on any topic related to the people he might have been raised amid, had circumstances been different. Some were only too eager to enlighten him -- children were rare, in fact, he soon realized he was the only 'elfling' in the entire realm. Even when trying to mask it, the others just seemed to know -- but they also seemed to know that the injured youngling had seen much in his few years, and this they respected.
Most of his time was spent in a quiet room near the stables, with the windows open so that the sweet breeze could waft in from the north. There were fresh flowers arranged each day at the bedside, and cool water for drinking, hot for bathing, and a bounty of food that seemed unimaginable for one person to eat.
After Valanyonnen's arrival, and following the decision of the other rune-keepers, Bainith found his mind more at peace. While Bainith had for many years worried about Yucca's well-being, he felt a new feeling beyond those felt with budding romances when he thought of Valanyonnen -- one of concern. He could not say worry, exactly, for it was obvious that Valanyonnen was a skilled minstrel and warrior, able to both defend and handle an offense, and to heal himself and his comrades. It was still no less unsettling to hear in Rivendell the whispers of a place called Moria, and of the fell beasts who lived there. Upon hearing that Valanyonnen intended to stay within the bounds of Rivendell while he healed, Bainith felt that unease fade, and the comfort that washed over him was enough to bring him the healing rest he so needed.
For long hours he would sleep, drifting in and out of reverie and dream, in the middle of the day or the stillness of the night. Sometimes he could hear the faint sound of a harp, so close yet so quiet, as if the musician sought to lull him to sleep but knew the sounds could wake him if too loud. Occasionally, the blankets and quilt slid away from him and he would shiver in that half-daze of near-sleep, but then strong yet gentle hands adjusted them, and tucked the blankets around him, fluffed his pillow, and kissed his brow as he relaxed and drifted back into a world of dreams. He did not know how much was reality and how much the fantasy of an overtired imagination, but he hoped and allowed himself to pretend that it was Valanyonnen who had taken up partial residence in the room, that he was the one who had moved the rocking chair by the bedside, whose harp it was that sometimes rested near the door, and whose hands lingered upon his forehead with a soothing touch every time the nightmares tried to invade his dreams. For now, he could only hope and dream.
