Maedhrathin gazes out across the waters of the river. They are calm here, where the shores gently slope to reach the water edge. Here at its broadest point, the river flows quietly south. An illusion of peace, but further north it is troubled by strife and grief, a heritage of an old and shadowed kingdom that never should have been.
The company he had been traveling with from Lindon, has made a short stop just after the river-crossing of Mitheithel. Only a couple of days remain on horse-back till again the tranquility of Imladris graces him.
Maedhrathin sighs, and reaches in to one of the saddle-bags strapped to his horse. Carefully he retrieves the letter he had received from Ealendil a couple of weeks ago. It is by now wrinkled and stained, smudged, and read many times over. Eyes wandering across the lightly flowing lines of her hand-writing decipher a message, a message he has by now become familiar with.
He sighs, “I wonder why she wanted me to bring it with me… It had been hanging there on the wall in her old house for so long, collecting dust”. Maedhrathin gently touches the carefully wrapped spear strapped to the side of his horse. It feels warm to the touch. Niemire had helped him pack it, reprimanding him often enough to leave a week long lingering headache. Ealendil’s “niece” may have a sharp tongue at times, but her love and reverence of artifacts was obvious, and she did know how to care for them.
The spear, a remainder of old, a warden’s spear, was a gift to Ealendil from her farther all those years ago. Judging by the shape of the wrapping, it seemed to be an ordinary spear, however, touching it he could almost sense an aura surrounding it, and aura of joy and untamed spiritual strength. Maedhrathin remembers Ealendil briefly mentioning it was gifted to her before Dagorlad, long before he had ever came to know her. He had seen her wield it during the Fornost campaign, as if married to it, gracefully performing a dance that left enemies falling in her wake, and hearts of more gentle nature longing. Maedhrathin smiles as he closes his eye, “What wonder that dance was… I wonder how many hearts were stirred at that time”, he whispers musingly, almost inaudible, exhaling slowly, and a sad smile slowly spreads across his face.
But then, all of the sudden, she had hung it on the wall in one of the larger rooms of her house, like a sacred relic, and had never touched it again. He never found out why, never dared to ask her.
And now, now she had written to him and asked him to bring it with him as he travelled to Imladris. But why? The letter didn’t reveal any clue, he had to wait until she chose to tell him, something he knew she would eventually do. At least he knew her that well by now.
Slowly removing his hand, which had gently rested on the spear, Maedhrathin folds and returns the letter to the saddle-bag. Shrugging, he turns around and, grabbing the reins, leads his horse to where the others of the company have gathered around a newly made camp-fire, joining them for yet another night on the road.
