Shrugging off the heavy scaled metal, he laid it back onto the bed next to all of the other pieces of armour that he owned. He stood looking at them intently, wearing a pair of soft black leather trousers and a worn arming jacket. His hair was pulled back tight into an untidy knot, making his features harsher than usual in the thin morning light. The bruises on his face had faded from the livid black and blues to a sickly green and yellow hue, the cut on his cheek healing slowly. Sighing quietly, he knew that even the scaled armour was too heavy. His eyes were drawn in longing to the exquisite set of plate mail shining darkly from the corner of his room, but that was not suitable for a long campaign, not suitable at all.
Turning his mind from such thoughts, he looked down at the lighter armour that he owned. A silver mail shirt glittered up at him and he picked it up, feeling the weight. Not too heavy to wear, but too heavy to carry. He put it aside seeing what else he could find that would be suitable. A jacket of hard, dark leather plates would also do, and he placed that upon the mail coat. Picking up a soft leather boot with a steel plate running the length of the shin, Estarfin smiled. Perfect. Strong, comfortable and quite light, these boots would suit the journey very well. Clearing a space on the bed, he sat and pulled the boots on, fastening the ties. He picked up a pair of black steel gauntlets decorated with small brass engravings. He smiled as he turned them this way and that in his hands, remembering how he had bartered his own silver gloves for them with a warrior from Barad Eithel. Putting them on top of the leather armour and suit of mail, he stood up, stretching. Picking up an armful of the remaining pieces of armour, boots and gloves, he walked to a small table, dumping the items on it unceremoniously. Pulling a crumpled black hooded cloak from the pile, he regarded it momentarily, and then threw it back onto the bed along with a basic set of leather pauldrons.
Looking at the pile of armour on the bed he nodded, clearly satisfied with the selection. Reaching inside the padded jacket that he wore he pulled out a small brass key on a fine silver chain. Turning and walking to a plain wooden door, he inserted the key and turned it in the lock, swinging the door open and stepping inside. The comparison to the other rooms that he kept was stark. Everything in this room was neatly arranged, clean, and free from any detritus. On the wall to his left hung a long and wickedly-pointed spear next to a large metal shield, both looking as new but clearly ancient in make. On a small table below the weapons were a curious collection of items. There was a medallion of silver with the emblem of a swan in flight engraved upon it. It had been ravaged by flames however, the metal darkening until it was black; the only trace of colour on it the red shining eyes of the swan. Next to this was a small, blunt training sword clearly intended for a child. There was a deep notch in the blade and the handle was broken. A beautiful circlet of gold with a large green jewel set into it sat upon the table also, looking out of place amidst the other broken and burnt items.
Upon the wall in front of him there hung a long glittering blade. The mounts for it looked new, and they were. The blade has been a gift from Lord Veryacano, a blade that could trace its lineage to the ancient city of Gondolin. Below the sword on a chest lay a folded black and white garment, spotlessly clean. Estarfin looked at the hauberk of the Order of Hammer, but he had already decided against wearing it. He thought back to what the Hammer Lord had commanded him to do:
‘‘Estarfin, you will provide close escort and you will not leave the lady’s side.’’
The hauberk was not heavily armoured enough for such a mission, and he did not have the option to carry it as baggage. Next to the hauberk sat a small silver dish with a ring in it. The ring was gold, with a great red stone mounted upon it flashing like fire as light from the outer rooms hit it. Picking up the ring, Estarfin slipped it onto his finger, marvelling that the metal was already warm, as though filled with its own hidden fire. Leaving the hauberk and sword in place, he turned and picked up the golden circlet, placing it upon his brow. Pulling down the spear and shield he turned and left the room, locking the door behind him.
Striding through the debris that surrounded his bed, he laid down the weapons next to the armour that he would wear. Without preamble, he took the coat of silver rings and passed them over his head. He felt the weight of the metal immediately. The mail was of the finest dwarf-craft, forged in Nogrod during the fleeting years of peace. Still, the weight was considerable. Estarfin tightened the mail using the leather straps, well-used to having to arm himself, rather than relying on the aid of others. He thought of those that would have, at one time, helped him. Forodhir, long dead on the despoiled plain of Anfauglith. Sarlin, lost at the Dagorlad. Helphas and Tinur, the smiling brothers, lost at the ill-fated assault upon the Havens. Belegos, his brother-in-arms. His thoughts were painful as he dwelt upon him. Sogadan had informed him with glee in his voice that Danel had turned Belegos against him, her injuries no doubt playing a part.
He tried to clear his mind of frustration at the rumours he had heard, of the eyes that followed him in cold judgement as he walked through Imladris. They did not, could not, understand. There had been no malice in his actions, none at all. Why did they not understand that that was the best he could do for her, the greatest gift that he could give? Perhaps, they cannot understand. They had not had to march against the nameless horrors of the world; they had not had to slay their own kin at the command of their Lord. He thought Belegos would have understood, but no. He pulled the hard leather jacket from the bed, pulling it roughly over his head. It caught on the wound in his cheek, but in frustration he simply pulled it with all of his might, the jacket falling into place and a fresh surge of blood flowing down his cheek, staining the silver mail crimson. Lifting his hand to his cheek and seeing the blood upon his fingers, his mood grew darker still. He needed no-one, required no aid. He would march with the others to Dol Guldur, and would stand and die with them there, for surely that was all that awaited them. It was madness to think that so few could overcome a fortress, and the descriptions that he had heard of it and the terrible aura of fear that hung over it only made their fate more certain.
He pulled the long leather straps of the jacket into place, fastening the garment in place. The pauldrons proved more difficult, but after several minutes had passed, he was finally ready. The frame of the mirror stood empty, the shards of glass covering the floor around it testament to the anger that lived inside him. He strapped the shield to his back with the spear underneath it. Adjusting the harness until it was comfortable, he then pulled the black cloak around himself. He checked that the fastening upon the cloak was tight enough, and pulled the hood over his head. Looking down at the material, he examined it for any damage, as he had not worn it for a long time. Satisfied, he lifted his hands to the clasp, looking to undo the cloak and disrobe himself of his armour. Everything was in order for the long journey ahead.
Turning his mind from such thoughts, he looked down at the lighter armour that he owned. A silver mail shirt glittered up at him and he picked it up, feeling the weight. Not too heavy to wear, but too heavy to carry. He put it aside seeing what else he could find that would be suitable. A jacket of hard, dark leather plates would also do, and he placed that upon the mail coat. Picking up a soft leather boot with a steel plate running the length of the shin, Estarfin smiled. Perfect. Strong, comfortable and quite light, these boots would suit the journey very well. Clearing a space on the bed, he sat and pulled the boots on, fastening the ties. He picked up a pair of black steel gauntlets decorated with small brass engravings. He smiled as he turned them this way and that in his hands, remembering how he had bartered his own silver gloves for them with a warrior from Barad Eithel. Putting them on top of the leather armour and suit of mail, he stood up, stretching. Picking up an armful of the remaining pieces of armour, boots and gloves, he walked to a small table, dumping the items on it unceremoniously. Pulling a crumpled black hooded cloak from the pile, he regarded it momentarily, and then threw it back onto the bed along with a basic set of leather pauldrons.
Looking at the pile of armour on the bed he nodded, clearly satisfied with the selection. Reaching inside the padded jacket that he wore he pulled out a small brass key on a fine silver chain. Turning and walking to a plain wooden door, he inserted the key and turned it in the lock, swinging the door open and stepping inside. The comparison to the other rooms that he kept was stark. Everything in this room was neatly arranged, clean, and free from any detritus. On the wall to his left hung a long and wickedly-pointed spear next to a large metal shield, both looking as new but clearly ancient in make. On a small table below the weapons were a curious collection of items. There was a medallion of silver with the emblem of a swan in flight engraved upon it. It had been ravaged by flames however, the metal darkening until it was black; the only trace of colour on it the red shining eyes of the swan. Next to this was a small, blunt training sword clearly intended for a child. There was a deep notch in the blade and the handle was broken. A beautiful circlet of gold with a large green jewel set into it sat upon the table also, looking out of place amidst the other broken and burnt items.
Upon the wall in front of him there hung a long glittering blade. The mounts for it looked new, and they were. The blade has been a gift from Lord Veryacano, a blade that could trace its lineage to the ancient city of Gondolin. Below the sword on a chest lay a folded black and white garment, spotlessly clean. Estarfin looked at the hauberk of the Order of Hammer, but he had already decided against wearing it. He thought back to what the Hammer Lord had commanded him to do:
‘‘Estarfin, you will provide close escort and you will not leave the lady’s side.’’
The hauberk was not heavily armoured enough for such a mission, and he did not have the option to carry it as baggage. Next to the hauberk sat a small silver dish with a ring in it. The ring was gold, with a great red stone mounted upon it flashing like fire as light from the outer rooms hit it. Picking up the ring, Estarfin slipped it onto his finger, marvelling that the metal was already warm, as though filled with its own hidden fire. Leaving the hauberk and sword in place, he turned and picked up the golden circlet, placing it upon his brow. Pulling down the spear and shield he turned and left the room, locking the door behind him.
Striding through the debris that surrounded his bed, he laid down the weapons next to the armour that he would wear. Without preamble, he took the coat of silver rings and passed them over his head. He felt the weight of the metal immediately. The mail was of the finest dwarf-craft, forged in Nogrod during the fleeting years of peace. Still, the weight was considerable. Estarfin tightened the mail using the leather straps, well-used to having to arm himself, rather than relying on the aid of others. He thought of those that would have, at one time, helped him. Forodhir, long dead on the despoiled plain of Anfauglith. Sarlin, lost at the Dagorlad. Helphas and Tinur, the smiling brothers, lost at the ill-fated assault upon the Havens. Belegos, his brother-in-arms. His thoughts were painful as he dwelt upon him. Sogadan had informed him with glee in his voice that Danel had turned Belegos against him, her injuries no doubt playing a part.
He tried to clear his mind of frustration at the rumours he had heard, of the eyes that followed him in cold judgement as he walked through Imladris. They did not, could not, understand. There had been no malice in his actions, none at all. Why did they not understand that that was the best he could do for her, the greatest gift that he could give? Perhaps, they cannot understand. They had not had to march against the nameless horrors of the world; they had not had to slay their own kin at the command of their Lord. He thought Belegos would have understood, but no. He pulled the hard leather jacket from the bed, pulling it roughly over his head. It caught on the wound in his cheek, but in frustration he simply pulled it with all of his might, the jacket falling into place and a fresh surge of blood flowing down his cheek, staining the silver mail crimson. Lifting his hand to his cheek and seeing the blood upon his fingers, his mood grew darker still. He needed no-one, required no aid. He would march with the others to Dol Guldur, and would stand and die with them there, for surely that was all that awaited them. It was madness to think that so few could overcome a fortress, and the descriptions that he had heard of it and the terrible aura of fear that hung over it only made their fate more certain.
He pulled the long leather straps of the jacket into place, fastening the garment in place. The pauldrons proved more difficult, but after several minutes had passed, he was finally ready. The frame of the mirror stood empty, the shards of glass covering the floor around it testament to the anger that lived inside him. He strapped the shield to his back with the spear underneath it. Adjusting the harness until it was comfortable, he then pulled the black cloak around himself. He checked that the fastening upon the cloak was tight enough, and pulled the hood over his head. Looking down at the material, he examined it for any damage, as he had not worn it for a long time. Satisfied, he lifted his hands to the clasp, looking to undo the cloak and disrobe himself of his armour. Everything was in order for the long journey ahead.
At that moment, a small knock came from the door. He frowned, for a moment unsure what the noise was. He turned and looked, wondering who would come to his rooms. He could not remember the last time he had had a visitor actively seek him out. Long before he had moved to Imladris that was for sure. He suddenly remembered; it had been when he had been summoned from his home in Lindon, to follow the King on the long march to war in the east. He was lost in the memory for a moment, and then the knock came again, sharper and louder with a hint of impatience to it. Without disrobing himself, still dressed in his armour with his weapons at his back, he walked to the door and pulled it open. To his great surprise, Parnard, the Mirkwood Elf stood there. They had first met under difficult circumstance in the Misty Mountains, and he knew that Parnard still held a grudge against him for his rough treatment in the tunnels of the goblins. Parnard looked taken aback at the appearance of Estarfin; dressed for war with blood running down his face. He took a step back, clutching a letter in front of him as though it were a shield.
“Parnard?” asked Estarfin, stepping out upon the dusty doormat. “What brings you here?”
Parnard stretched out his arm as far as it would reach, making a deep bow, and presented the white envelope before him. "A letter," he announced, his voice assuming the air of the bored servant, "from the Lady Danel, to the Lord Estarfin.”
“Indeed? How is she?” asked Estarfin.
“Well enough, my lord,” said Parnard, wishing desperately for Estarfin to take the letter so that he could hasten away. “She is recovering from her wounds, if that is what his lordship wishes to know.”
Estarfin was not sure whether to smile or frown at the wood elf's curt formality. “Recovering, that is good. I am glad. How is her mood?”
“Like the weather, lord,” replied Parnard dryly, peering over Estarfin’s shoulder into the dark rooms behind him. His eyes quickly passed over the state of the broken furniture, the broken bottles, and the dents in the wall. It looked to him as though some crazed beast had been provoked and let loose. He made a loud gasp of astonishment. Well! Perhaps he should not be surprised - of course this murdering elf would give his home the same treatment as his friends and companions. Parnard’s attention was drawn back as Estarfin reached out a gauntleted hand for the letter.
“May I?” asked Estarfin.
“Oh, yes, yes, of course!” said Parnard, and handed him the letter, his hand shaking. Now the minds of these two Noldor are distant, and their words few and cold against one another, and this letter the ending of their friendship, he thought. A delicate eight-rayed star of flame was pressed into the red wax of its seal - the device of the House of Fëanor.
Estarfin took the letter, feeling the uneasiness of Parnard as he looked upon him. He thought on him for a moment; another that does not understand what steps must be taken in order to survive. It was true that he had dealt with him with harsh words and actions in the mountains, but since then had raised neither hand nor voice to the Elf. Still, it saddened him to see the fear in the eyes of his own kind, justified though it may be. It brought back memories that he wished to forget, but could never do so. Wondering if there was time to heal whatever lay between them, he stepped back, gesturing for Parnard to come inside. The first for an age that he had extended a welcome to.
“I….I have” started Estarfin, unsure of what to say. “There is wine inside, if you would, if you would care for some?”
Parnard looked shocked at the idea, almost terrified. Perhaps he thought that Estarfin sought to lure him in beyond the sight of others, to do who knew what to him. He had told the Lady Danel that he would deliver this last message to Estarfin, but felt the need to speed away with all haste, else Estarfin be angry and vengeful with its bearer once he reads it, and so do him a hurt. “No, no, no,” he said. “I must be away and see to preparations for the journey.”
Forgetting himself for a moment, Estarfin chuckled. “You? You will march with Danel? Why Parnard, I did not think that you had it in you.”
Parnard looked affronted. “Better to have self-control than to conquer a city, lord,” he replied, and bowed hastily. “Farewell!” he said, now fearing the retribution of the terrible elf Lord for his retort, and walked quickly away, checking back over his shoulder several times before he was out of sight of Estarfin.
Watching him depart, Estarfin frowned at the strange words of Parnard. He tried to laugh at the idea of Parnard's suggestion, although no laughter would come. Better to have self-control than to conquer a city? He waited for the surge of anger to flow through him at Parnard’s words, but none came, just a wave of melancholy as he felt the ring of truth in his words. Looking back into his rooms, into the dark, into the mess of rage and hate, he suddenly found that he could not bring himself to return. He stepped out and shut the door behind him, the letter still clutched in his black-gauntleted hand. Looking down at it, he tore it open, quickly reading the words upon it. The expression on his face did not change as he finished reading, but he screwed the letter up and tossed it away. He strode away from his door, determined to find either Belegos or Danel. No matter what he felt, he had given them both his word. To Belegos, he had sworn to stand beside him when he again faced the Nazgûl. To Danel, to follow her to whatever end. He did not expect a warm welcome, but perhaps at the end, when they stood together, he may find forgiveness before the endless void of the Halls of Mandos.
