Chapter 11
Mariwen

eaconturned to make his way through the woods in the opposite direction, hoping that Mariwen would not see him. He felt too often with her the sting of disappointment. However, he had betrayed his presence by the slightest noise, and she called to him, asking if he would join her. The lilting musical voice cut through him like smooth glass, yet he found he could not deny her request.

Together they walked along an intimate path under an arch of trees. As Mariwen walked contently, Deacon steadily regarded her, his mood intense. He envied her sense of belonging. She was content and happy here. This was her home. Every aspect of the woods appeared to delight her, and he was jealous of everything that took her attention away from him. He desired that he should be the source of her pleasure.

“You look as though you belong to the wood,” he said, bringing her attention to himself. Her solitary musing was a great bitterness to him.

“I do,” she said smiling, “and I shall spend all my days here.”

As she moved away to touch one of the trees, Deacon let his hand gently catch the skirt of her dress, letting the light folds slip though his fingers. He watched as she kindly fondled the draping foliage. In her every movement was beauty and subtlety. Despite his aversion to the elves, her loveliness was the one beauty to captivate him. She was not grave like the others but free and elusive as the wind. For many years he had known Mariwen but seldom did he see her. She dwelled often in the realm of her father’s people. Her absences only increased his longing for her.

“We should seek often to be alone with nature,” said Mariwen, resting her hand on the tree, “and she will whisper to us her secrets.”

“She does not wish to speak to me nor share her secrets.”

“You must be patient.”

“To what end?” he asked, frustrated.

“She will in time,” replied Mariwen, rejoining him. “But only so far as you are willing to listen.”

The conversation threw him into a peculiar state of agitation, and they were quiet for some time. Quite absorbed in her he was not content to walk at her shoulder. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her. He did neither. Something in her manner was always capable of keeping him at a distance. Not once had he laid a hand on her. There was an ever present divide between them he could not close, though he desperately wanted to.

He marvelled, not without some bitterness, at the hardness of her heart, despite her fair and yielding form. Soon his gaze shifted from Mariwen—to look upon her gave him a longing in his heart that only caused him pain. She glanced over, and Deacon knew she saw the same dark, disappointed look she had often seen.

“Upon what thought does your mind linger?” she asked. “I see sadness in your eyes.”

Deacon, conscious of growing pale, was annoyed at himself for revealing any sign of weakness. He glanced at her, then away from her questioning gaze. Finally he spoke brutally plainly. “I was thinking how much I want to leave here.”

“Why is it that you wish to leave?”

“I cannot breathe here,” he said with a look of ill-disguised aversion. “But I cannot abandon my mother.”

“Her health fails her still?”

Deacon nodded once, leaving his head inclined, and compressing his lips painfully.

“Do not despair,” she said sorrowfully. “Your mother is strong and here we have the best healers in all the world.” After a moment of silence, Mariwen asked, “Is she content here? Your mother?”

“She is.”

“Then why are you not?”

Deacon exhaled discontentedly before answering. “There is nothing here for me, beyond my mother. She alone keeps me from leaving.”

The last he spoke almost insolently, searching Mariwen’s face for any sign of hurt. There was none, and his face grew hard.

“There is nothing here for you?” she repeated plaintively.

“There is nothing,” he said cruelly. She had caused him so much suffering it was easy for him to be cruel.

“Does she know this is your feeling?”

“I would not burden her,” he said simply, but the cost of his effort in sparing his mother was plain on his face, and Mariwen felt a great affection for him in that moment. Gradually their walking slowed until they stopped entirely and stood facing one another under the mottled shade of the trees.

“What makes you so miserable here?” Mariwen asked. “What is it you seek?”

“I don’t know,” Deacon answered. Besides her, he didn’t know what he was looking for. “Glory, honour, renown,” he said, as though they were standard aspirations of men. “I want to be far from the wretchedness of common existence.” The last he said with a kind of disgust, a fear and detestation of mediocrity.

“What is common about your existence?” she said with a smile.

He had no answer, and she could see how he suffered.

“My mind is restless, I hardly know for what,” he said at last. “The days are passing, and I have not yet fathomed for what purpose they are given to me. I have a longing, a craving, and I cannot tell for what. Do not tell me to listen for it in the rain or the whisper of the leaves.” He was restless and intolerant.

“You must be patient. It is our greatest defence against sorrow and our greatest virtue,” she said in a tone that irritated Deacon in his present mood. He wanted comfort, and she gave him counsel.

Mariwen was young, younger than he, but she thought him to have young eyes as yet and believed she should lead and correct him. Deacon thought it did not bother him, but deep below the surface he was nettled. He hated her way of patiently dealing with him and her lofty sense of superiority.

“And how do you suppose that?” he asked, trying to keep his temper. “I consider patience neither sustaining nor praiseworthy.”

“Patience enables us to bear all things,” said Mariwen, “and is the foundation for all the virtues. Therefore, it is the greatest. It is what my people have always endeavoured to maintain.”

Deacon frowned. “It must be very easy to be patient when you are gifted with time,” he said with a sharpness that silenced her. Mariwen lightly rested her open palm on his cheek, and he felt his chest expand with a rush of fresh air, filling his senses with the scent of the woods. Closing his eyes with relief, he hadn’t realized how hard-clenched he was until softened under her tenderness.

“Do not give way to hopelessness,” she said. “In time all things will come into our understanding.”

In her expression was such sweetness, Deacon began to feel confident in her affection for him. Her fingers brushed over his cheek, light as a feather. The pleasure which her touch afforded was rarely felt by him. The very notion of holding her made his blood beat fiercely. It was so strong a desire he felt he would burst out in brutality, but he would rather go without her forever than do her any harm and knew a strong hand would only drive her further away from him. He would have to be patient and pin her delicate wings subtly with a gentle hand.