Lakeside Remembrance

Numerous beyond counting, the stars reflected upon the surface of the lake could have been a second sky, so clear was the image. Watching them in silence brought a sense of peace to Estarfin such as he had not felt for a long time. His breathing was slow, his coarse hair shifting slightly in the cool breeze that rippled across the surface of the water. As he stared at the black mirror bathed in starlight, memories came to the forefront of his mind of Lake Helevorn in the green lands of Thargelion and the joys of an all-too-brief childhood spent upon the shore. He smiled in remembrance of days that lasted an eternity, bright sunlight covering the lands that were still frost-ridden from a harsh winter. And such days had always been filled with the adventures that are only granted to the young. How mighty he had felt, as he used a broken wooden branch as a keen blade to fight off the dark forces of Morgoth Bauglir; oft represented as a stunted bush or withered tree when none of his companions could be convinced to play the villain himself. And of course he was but part of a legion; other Elf children his brothers and sisters in arms against the darkness. Who could have stood against such valiant and courageous warriors of the First Born? A host of Caranthir's, led by the son of one of his own Captains? The smile that lingered upon Estarfin's face became wider, his face showing an almost forgotten aspect as the cares of a lifetime fell from him in a moment of simple recollection. He remembered so clearly the days and nights before the darkness fell upon Thargelion, before all he knew turned upside-down and inside-out. Distant memories of joy, now lost to him save in brief glances; bittersweet visions of a past he could not reclaim. A smiling face looked back at him from the water, dirt smudges upon his pale cheeks and twigs caught in his coarse hair. Hope within his grey eyes, and no trace of the heavy burdens of duty, and of guilt that would be laid upon him in the interminably long years that separated the reflection from his current self.
 
Estarfin stared at the reflection until the ripples of the water wiped the image away. He looked away from the water, lost in thoughts of his past and his future. What would that young warrior have thought of the path that he had trodden, of the fate that he had weaved for himself through the long years? Would the excuse of duty hold fast against the gaze of those innocent grey eyes? The blood of friends had been spilt by his own hand after all, and such a betrayal could never be forgiven by one so young and naïve to the realities of the world around him. Would that a memory and a wish could wipe the slate clean, could return him to that time of joy, and light. He was mired in darkness and blood, so deeply entrenched that none could alter his fate. Such a price had been earned of course, every action digging him deeper into the darkness. Those that had tried to aid him to find a new path were now lost to him. As his mind drifted, he allowed his thoughts to dwell upon Belegos, one that he had called brother for a brief time, only a handful of years, barely a blink of the eye. Despite the dark moods of Estarfin they had been friends. And how had he repaid his friend for his faith and patience? With the blood of those who did not deserve death, and with words unworthy of a son of Gondolin. Who else had stood by him since Forodhir had fallen at the Nírnaeth Arnoediad? His kin from Thargelion? She was lost to him, and the ring he still wore upon his finger felt cold and lifeless upon his finger. Perhaps he would never have spoken the words aloud, but he missed them, and knew that their absence would weigh ever more heavily upon him if they walked ever closer to Dol Guldur.
 
And now another was gone, although perhaps he could not have called Nirhen a friend. An ally certainly, and at one point someone with whom he had sparred with, had drank with, had laughed with. Gone. Another casualty of the pride of the Noldor. Would Lord Veryacano ever see sense and relent of his judgement? She had disobeyed an order, but it was an order that should never have been given. He remembered the fiery words that he had spoken to Veryacano under the influence of the rough wine that they had found.
 
"A warrior who breaks a sword or casts it away because he fears to cut himself upon the sharp edge has left the path of wisdom. It must be held firm and used to fight the enemy, that is its purpose. That is our purpose."
 
Only Parnard was left to him; that most unlikely and unlooked for friend. It was in him that he saw his only chance for redemption, although how it could be achieved he did not know. If there was no hope, there would only be despair left to him, and that was not the end that he wished for. To leap into the fire as Maedhros at the ending of all hopes? No. Strange though he might be, the Mirkwood Elf was true of heart, and the one bright light left to him in the darkness. How strange fate could be, to forge such allies into friends. Although his memories of Eregion and Lothlórien were dim as if viewed through a fog, Estarfin felt a debt was owed to Parnard such as would be hard to pay with friendship alone. And so he had watched over him whenever he could, whenever duty could allow. He has even made for him a sword, the best that he could forge, and now tried to argue against disparaging words spoken against him in the company. The Ambassador of the House Vanimar, was that not the title that Lord Anglachelm himself had placed upon him? And yet he was still treated with scorn and derision at times despite such a lofty position.
 
Estarfin stifled a yawn, it had been a long day; that much was true. The newcomer amongst them was like a splinter, unwelcome and a source of irritation. He had given his name as Celephinnor, a spy from Lothlórien it seemed, although he carried no proof of his claims that he had been sent by the Lady Galadriel. Arrogant and prideful he seemed to Estarfin, and unwilling to dirty his hand with unpleasant duty. So alike to the kin of Celeborn who had fallen in Doriath. Such an interloper could not be trusted, although he would not raise the subject with Veryacano, for the decision had already been made, despite the many reservations that Estarfin had voiced upon his unheralded and unwelcome arrival. At least he had stayed out of the way, content with watching and judging the company with that look of superiority upon his face.
 
They had journeyed to Amon Hen, a ruined fortress of Men long gone, a shattered reminder of the power and skill that Men had once possessed, before they fell even deeper into ignorance and idleness. The yrch that had taken up abode within had been scattered and destroyed, and Celephinnor had proved of some use at least, reaping a bloody tally with his long bow. Lord Veryacano had sat long upon the stone chair and stared out across the wide landscape, his eyes unfocussed, as if seeing something other than what was before him. The company had stood in silence, waiting to see if the spell would be broken. After long minutes, Veryacano seemed to come back to his senses, although he looked troubled. It seemed that he had seen far, further than even the keen eyes of Elves could see. Yet the throne had only allowed vision to the East, West and South, and the North was hidden from knowledge. Perhaps once another throne had stood upon the hill, but crumbled towers were all that remained of them if that was the case. Veryacano asked if any other would sit, and would see, but none seemed keen on the idea. Estarfin had merely let his hand brush the stone armrest before pulling it back, as if the stone has hot and had burnt his outstretched hand. After the others had left the platform Parnard lingered, yet spoke nothing to the company upon his return, so anything that he may have seen if he sat upon the chair he kept to himself.
 
They had found no sign of Lord Anglachelm, and the road eastward held no hope of return. If they must walk it they would, for were they not honour-bound to stay true to their purpose? Who amongst them would be dishonourable enough to turn their back upon the very reason for their departure from Imladris? Perhaps the newcomer, but such could be expected, if not excused. But if the road had no return, then the company must be sure of the direction before they began to walk it. What use would an honourable death serve if Lord Anglachelm had never been to this place, and did not lie beyond the eastern mountains? Their lives must not be wasted, and so Veryacano ordered a search of the lake shore, and so the company will remain by the lake a little longer, and the memories will haunt Estarfin until they leave.v