AAAH CHOOOO!
Lindovor reached for the fine linen handkerchief he kept tucked in his doublet. Bloody provincials. Didn't they know how to keep their oldest parchments wrapped in cloth as they did in the archives of the White City? He glanced over at Walt Hollytree who was rummaging through some of the older parchments. The man looked like a mole or a shrew more intent on creating a hole than knowing what was passing through his hands. Lindovor quickly pressed his kerchief over his mouth and stifled an involuntary snort of contempt. After all, the man was trying to help regardless as to how Lindovor's old tutors might have assessed his scholarly prowess.
"Hah! Here it is..." cried the dusty clerk. "The Battle of Deadman's Dike. There's mention of that silvery thing, if I recall rightly." Walt Hollytree held out a parchment that was crumbling at the edges.
Lindovor carefully began to open the scroll and read. Deadman's Dike indeed; only in this back-water settlement would Fornost Erain be so named. The account was as he remembered it, even the mention of the horses taking fright and robbing Ëarnur of his first chance to meet the Witch-king in battle...an unfulfilled wish that was later his undoing...and of course the mythical elves of Imladris turning the tide of the battle. Lindovor smirked slightly. Well, it made for a good yarn, at least. No elf had been seen in the White City in his lifetime, and the closest he had ever come to beholding one of the Firstborn was a visit to the court of Dol Amroth and a glimpse of its princess. Quickly he shook the thoughts away as a paragraph caught his eye. It read:
' And upon the common folk who dwelt upon the outskirts of the great city great sorrow was visited, for the armies of Angmar swept over them without mercy, intent on the greater prize. Yet many were saved by the efforts of the warriors of the Silver Sickle, who placed themselves between the ravaging hordes of the North and their victims. Many endured because the Ones who wore the Odogil offered up their lives in defense of the Innocents.'
Lindovor lifted the chain from around his neck and gazed at the silver brooch that hung from it. The Plough, the Wain, Burning Briar or Valacirca...were these the same Seven Stars that the scribe had written about? The brooch wheeled and glinted in the library's candlelight. The Silver Sickle....the silver brooch. That battle had taken place a thousand years ago, yet this thing had only been recently made.
Was it the same thing? And how was his father connected to it?
Lindovor carefully tucked the brooch back into his collar and handed the old parchment back to Walt Hollytree. His resolve was strengthened. There was more to this than fulfilling his promise to his mother to find the man who had sired him. Something much greater...
