The many plants, set to catch the filtered sunlight, are now shaded; lit palely by the new moon, their brightly colored leaves are muted now. The cool evening air fills the flet, moist and comfortable. Most astonishingly, Goerhim is not near his beloved trees. Instead he sits on a bench in the middle of the room, eyes focused on nothing in particular. A worried frown wrinkles his forehead and if one happened to notice, he sits bolt upright and very tensely in despite of his abstracted air.
Fitful and fickle is Manwe's charge, and it returns with a faint scent of earth and crushed grass, spiralling past the figure crossing the space between the flets. And as sure upon the rope bridge as she is upon the ground, Hyardoel dares intrude upon Goerhim's current haven, shedding her cloak from her shoulders as she steps into the room.
Grey eyes scan this garden, flashing briefly with disquiet upon alighting on her fellow tauron. "Elbereth smile on you, Goerhim." The words are quiet and true.
Goerhim's eyes sharpen at her entrance. And even more unusually, they stay sharp and focused. Not now are there wandering thoughts, dreamy indecision, vagueness. "Hyardoel," he says simply, but the same worry that sits on his brow can also be seen in leaf-colored eyes. "Will you sit down?"
And quickly, she closes the distance between them, mud-caked boots padding softly upon the hardwood planks, dirt-streaked cloak (held in one hand) almost brushing the floor; though her gaze had wavered not at the young Dinlom's words, Hyardoel does not sit just yet. A question is written in the way the elleth frowns, long-considered, then at last given voice. She tilts her head. "You are not at ease."
Restlessly, the young forester shifts on his bench. And as if he can no longer bear to be still, he feels for his crutch and pulls himself upright. There is not much room for pacing here, too many pots; and it is rather difficult to pace with a cruch anyways. But Goerhim takes a few limping steps across the floor and turns. "We cannot find Rhibi." The crutch thuds on the floor, and his left foot drags after it. "But that is not why you came, surely?" He is attempting to be polite, but it is obvious his attention and concern remains with his missing brother.
A quick glance to the potted trees confirm her true purpose, though Hyardoel speaks not of it yet. The elleth straightens slightly as Goerhim stands; her eyes narrow once more, dark brows meeting in a frown, though this time it is for focus, not unease.
She follows his movements with her gaze, unmoving from her calm stance even as he limps, yet wary and ready nonetheless. "He is not the only one," she says as he turns, "My nephew is among the missing as well. I have searched for him, and others, through the trails, marked and unmarked -- yet the olvar have no news of their passing." Almost fitfully, her gaze turns to the padded seat, and she tosses her cloak upon the bench. "My sister is...nigh distraught with concern."
Rubbing one hand across his forehead, Goerhim stops his fretful pacing for a minute. "I have asked Rosgwaen to look for him. I.." he bites his lip and then bursts out, "I cannot sit here and do nothing! Mother worries herself sick. And I, I am useless." Bitterness and self-mockery, absent since his trees began to sprout, thicken his voice. "How many are missing, do you know? If it is not just Rhibi...?" Thud. Scrape. A few paces bring him to the largest of the pots and he pivots awkwardly.
A wince barely covered by the lifting of a hand comes to Hyardoel at Goerhim's self-rebuke; she makes as if to move to him -- leaning forward slightly, shifting weight to her toes -- yet she exhales, settling back down again. "Rumor has it there are others, though the murmurs are not so loud some still name it mere coincidence. I think it strange that such party of children go unmarked; yet it seems none of their peers here would know. Though..." Long is her silence as her eyes look to the Silvan, touch upon his crutch, then dart away.
"Though, what? Do you know something? What aren't you telling me?" So swift is Goerhim to turn on the forester, so painful his anxiety, he nearly loses his balance. A hand is thrown out and barely he regains his balance. "Please, Hyardoel," he says intensely, not even seeming to notice his near mishap. "If you know anything, please tell me!" In the darkness of the talan, his read hair seems darker, his face paler.
Longer does her silence stretch; she speaks not. Above them, a breeze riffles through the canopy of gold, and shafts of starlight play upon the leaves. She shakes her head. "Nay, Goerhim. I have told you all I know that might concern you." A pause, as she looks to the clay jars again; faint reluctance may be heard in her tone. "Have you given thought to where your charges are to be transplanted, as they grow? You know their roots will hunger for space, before long."
"Transplanted?" Goerhim looks at his trees as if they are strangers for a bare second before something akin to panic enters his voice. "My trees? You cannot take them away from me! Not again!" Shaking, he stands there, hair framing his long white face. And after many minutes of silence, he nods jerkily. "I know. I have not thought of it. I did not want to, but you are right. I will now. I promise." Now does he lift pleading eyes to Hyardoel's. And very softly, "Could you... leave me alone now? I must think." He swallows audibly. "If... if you have a suggestion, you might tell me. But later?"
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