Continued from: Footsteps in the Snow
Not much could be seen through the white mist of the mountains and even less could be heard through the endless cold winds that blew. Still, Parnard was of the Quendi and he was blessed with sight and hearing beyond the ability of mortals. His senses allowed him to hear the slight sounds of the grinding snow under approaching footsteps.
Sitting exhausted behind a large rock – a shelter from the freezing wind - he waited and listened, thinking ‘This must be the end.’ For elves had fleet steps and when treading on snow they make no sound, so he concluded the approaching steps must belong to goblins, or even worse, men: Evil Men who followed his trail in pursuit. Where would he end up, in a makeshift prison cell in a damp mountain cave? Tortured by day and left to starve by night? Thoughts whirled around and around in his mind.
Then one by one, they emerged from the woods ahead and appeared to him through the mist, three of them. They approached with tall steps, their legs moving in and out of the knee-deep snow. The figures kept their distance from each other as if to surround him but they kept their distance from the lone elf. They stopped some distance away, staring at him. The mist still concealed their figures, but Parnard was certain they were not goblins. For even though they were knee deep in snow, they stood tall, clad in thick clothes fit for the mountain climate. They must be men! All Parnard could do was to reach for his sword, but he was not sure if he had the strength to use it. One of the dark figures pointed towards him. That was when another silhouette appeared, a fourth.
He seemed like a brute of larger build. He took a moment to glance at Parnard, and crushing the snow underfoot, he approached. Clad in even thicker clothes with a dark fur hood and cloak, he stopped just a foot away.
‘‘There you are,’’ he said in a thick voice as he took a knee beside him. ‘‘We have been looking for you." From under the dark hood, his eyes glinted with the light of the West. Narrowing his eyes, he said, "Parnard.’’
Parnard then noticed it was not a man, but one of the Eldar, and he stared at him in open-mouthed amazement. Veryacano pushed back his hood and revealed his face to him with a smile.
‘‘M-m-my lord...?’’ was all Parnard could muster. Veryacano turned and whistled at one of the sentries and the sentry bolted towards them. Parnard recognized him as Estarfin. He opened his backpack and handed a small leaf covered pack to Veryacano before returning to his position. Veryacano uncovered the lembas underneath it and handed it to Parnard. ‘‘You must be hungry.’’
Parnard took the bread with hands trembling from the cold. His teeth were rattling together from the freezing wind and as steady as he could he said: ‘‘T-t-thank y-you my l-lord.’’
Veryacano watched him take a few bites of the elvish bread and handed a small flask to him before looking up. ‘‘A storm is brewing. We ought to return to the camp,’’ he proclaimed, gesturing at the cliffs above.
Parnard took a sip of the sweet liquid from the flask and immediately felt energized. His strength was revived and color returned to his face, for the flask contained Miruvor, the liquor of elves which had potent reviving properties. Re-invigorated with this, Parnard recalled his cause, and immediately objected.
‘‘My lord, I must return to the valley without delay. I must not fail Lord Anglachelm.’’
Veryacano turned back to him and said in a stern voice: ‘‘Imladris is a day’s march from here. With the storm coming, you will only find yourself lost again. You have been going in circles, have you not?’’ Parnard had no reply. ‘‘You will come with us to our campsite,” continued Veryacano. “Once we are done with our patrol, we will return to the valley together,’’ he ordered. Rising to his feet, he extended a hand to Parnard, who offered the flask back to him. ‘‘Keep it.’’ Veryacano said, holding his hand extended. Parnard tucked the flask in his belt, and grabbing Veryacano’s hand, pulled himself to his feet.
Veryacano signaled the others to move out. Together with Parnard, they began climbing up the steep slope leading to the cliffs. Parnard recognized one of the soldiers to be none other than the Hound of Hammer, Daegond who rarely left the Hammer Lord’s side. He was silent. Parnard waved towards Estarfin to gesture thanks for the lembas, but Estarfin did not seem to notice. The third sentry Parnard did not recognize. He was clad in darkly armor and cloak. He followed from a distance with what seemed to be an unpleasant expression.
Snow was a great hindrance, but Parnard’s strength had returned to him and he had little difficulty keeping up with the Hammer Lord as he crushed the deep snow down with his heavy boots. The other three marched behind them in single file, though Parnard noticed they kept a steady distance from each other and their bright eyes were ever vigilant.
‘‘How did you find me, Lord?” asked Parnard, panting from sprinting up to walk beside the tall Elf.
‘‘We have watched you for some time. We could not tell if you were friend or foe so we decided to find out. Your tracks gave you away for a friend.’’ Veryacano answered.
‘‘But the mist...how could you see me?’’ Parnard wondered aloud.
‘‘The eyes of the Noldor see much.. even through the mountain mists.’’ Veryacano chuckled. ‘‘There are ways,’’ he concluded cryptically.
Parnard asked no more questions, for the air was thin and he needed his breath to keep pace with the Noldor. For a while, they climbed without talking and only the sound of creaking snow could be heard. Finally, they took a break at an even clearing. All five elves were out of breath.
Veryacano leaned on a rock at the side of the cliff, and looking at Parnard, broke the silence at last, and asked, '‘So...what’s your story?’’
Continued in: High on the Mountain
