Time for Reflection

He stood apart from the others, the faint glow of the fire still visible from the copse of stunted trees that he stood in. The rain had ceased its downpour hours ago but his cloak was still wet through, clinging to his light armour and inner layers of clothing. He stood still, leaning against the rough bark of one of the nameless trees, silent, uncomfortable and cold in his wet clothing. Drops of rain fell on him from time to time, a residue of the storms still left upon the dark leaves of the tree. He turned his head slightly, looking to the orange glow coming from the Ranger camp and the warmth and comfort that it offered. He turned his head away, for he craved solitude to dwell upon his troubled thoughts and would not spend time amongst Men by choice. These Men were descendants of those who had fled Númenor, if he understood correctly. He would tolerate their presence, he would not cause problems, but he would not remain in their company unless ordered to.
 
He was exhausted, having not slept for at least two nights, perhaps longer and he found that his mind was reluctant to dream whilst he stood there. He had been thinking of Belegos, anger and sorrow coming across him in waves of changing emotion. Why had he not understood? Estarfin had known that Belegos would not have approved, he had always lacked the resolve to do what must be done when the road grew dark. Such a thing was understandable of course, and Estarfin had never before rebuked him for it, or thought less of him. He was a son of Gondolin was he not, and worthy of respect and honour. Estarfin had always followed a different path, but Belegos had always shown him the same respect, until now. He shook his head sadly, his hair falling across his face as he looked down. He had expected him to at least understand. The search for Lord Anglachelm must come before all other concerns. Nirhen had shown him that. What use was restraint and honour in such a desperate search? Any advantage that they had must be protected by any means. Did Belegos think that his course of action was based upon a choice? If he had choice in the matter he would be dwelling in Imladris still, in peace. After so many long years, he had little desire for blood and only his terrible oath still held him on course. An uncomfortable feeling crept over him at that thought, as he realised he was lying to himself. He would never stop hating the latecomers, could never stop. But he had never before slaughtered those who had not first raised weapon against him.
 
His anger at Veryacano had clouded his judgement perhaps, and a measure of this blood must also be upon his hands. Veryacano had lead a raid into the village, capturing the Chief and speeding him away. Questioning him revealed little, and instead of quickly and mercifully killing the Man, Veryacano had given him gifts and sent him away. Estarfin banged his head backwards into the unyielding bark of the tree in frustration at what seemed to be madness on the part of Veryacano. How could he have expected anything other than treachery from Men? He was willing to lose their only advantage, their presence in these lands remaining a secret, for the appearance of mercy. A foolish notion and one that the company could ill afford. The Chief had repaid Veryacano with betrayal and a blade in his thigh. Had Estarfin's reaction truly been a surprise?
 
He felt weary as he had not done since his travels through the land of Lórien. He pulled his heavy gauntlets off, laying them on the patchy grass and rubbing his hands together, trying to warm them against the cold night air. Pausing for a moment, he reached inside his jacket, pulling out a thin silver chain with a small silver key and a golden ring hanging from it. His thoughts drifted to Danel as he pulled the chain from around his neck, slipping the clasp open and pulling the ring free. He stowed the chain and key in a pocket, and held the ring up in the starlight, smiling slightly as he did so. It was as beautiful as he remembered; a ring of brightest gold set with a fiery stone, mounted upon the star that he knew so well. He rolled it between thumb and forefinger, thinking. He put the ring on, holding his hand up to the stars in a gesture of defiance, or perhaps contrition. Pulling his gauntlets back on, he began walking back to the camp, seeking warmth by the fire.