The Captain of the Arrow stood alone before Daegond's fresh cairn, after night had fallen and there was only the silver light of the stars and the rustle of the wind in the valley of Imladris. Unable to bear the crowds, she had watched the ceremony silently from atop a tree, hidden from all sight amidst the branches.
How strange, she thought, that even those who had loved the Hound little in life would come to honour him in death. What had they not called him while he was alive! "Uncouth", "uncanny" and, most damning of all, "an unrepentant kinslayer". What did they know of repentance, those who had never borne the same guilt?
How strange, Sáranassë thought, that he had died during this season, when all was cold and still. Did not Celegorm himself die at Midwinter, when the woods of Doriath lay under frost, when all the nightingales were gone and their voices not heard in the forest? Now one of his followers of old had finally followed him into Mandos.
What judgement would await him there? What pity would he find, though all whom he had slain should entreat for him? Would he wish for pity, or embrace his grim fate in death as he had in life?
Sáranassë stared blankly at the heap of stones now holding a body that had once been strong and the bane of many a door. How could so small a place hold him? Her eyes burned with painful dryness, as if from exhaustion. One such as her had no tears anymore.
Thus she stood, unweeping, unshivering - for how could she tremble, she of the steady bow-arm? Only the wind moved the indigo feathers on her cloak as she thought of the gifts that had been brought to the gravesite - Manadhlaer's book, Elvealin's belt, and more things beside. But what grave-gift could she bring? There was little that she possessed, other than her bow from which she would not part, and a few clothes. When she had been a wanderer in the wilds, she had not been able to accumulate possessions. Now that she had a home again at last, even now that she led one of the Orders of Vanimar and could have all she needed, she still did not wish for more than she could carry.
Were Daegond still alive, he would not shun a gift of fresh venison. But if she laid such on his cairn now, it would only rot and befoul the place. Nor could she give a gift of her hair-braid, like Manadhlaer had done for Themodir, for she had cut off her braid in Doriath in the frost, and never allowed her hair to grow long ever since.
Finally, Sáranassë came to a decision. With a sigh so quiet it was barely more than a stronger breath, she unclasped the brooch that had been pinned near her throat. It had the shape of a graceful nightingale, in a style that was not Noldorin. Only a maiden of Menegroth would wear such a brooch. Sáranassë held the ornament in her hand with care, almost as if it was a living bird. The yéni fell away, and she saw the eyes of a silver-haired Elf, the flash of a blade, the redness of blood. She closed her eyes tight, and was in Imladris again, where the wind blew cold, but it was not the cold of Midwinter, of frozen blood cracking under her boots.
Now one of the Elves who had been there, who understood, was gone. Daegond the Hound was gone, and with him all his memories. Was it not fitting, then, to leave a gift of her own memories with him? Carefully, she placed the nightingale brooch in a cranny of the cairn. The bird of Doriath had finally come to rest.
As Sáranassë turned her eyes to the sky, her only wish was that Daegond would find rest too.
