Quiet Reflection

He sat in thought, a glass of wine in hand. The hall was quiet, as was everywhere in Mithlond. The owner who had provided him with wine and smoked fish had retreated back above stairs once he had been paid. Estarfin did not mind, he had not ridden there for company. But the chill winds and driving rain had driven him to seek shelter.

Mithlond had become emptier, quieter over the years. He remembered when there had been stalls in the streets and many halls and inns with the sound of sweet music spilling forth from them. Now it stood almost deserted, and that saddened the old Noldor warrior. He had never loved the place, it had never been a home to him. But he had lived there for a whole age of the world, and felt regret at what was lost to time. So many things.

He ran a finger around the rim of the glass, recalling the details of his recent hunt. Danel, Parnard and he had ridden down and dispatched a throng of wicked Men. He almost smiled to himself at the thought, there was little difference between the lowest roving brigrand and whatever petty king sat upon rickety throne after all. It was good to once again do his duty, to feel pride in the strength of his arm. Danel had guessed at some of his despair, he knew that much despite what little he had told her. Since his failure in the accursed mountains above Imladris he had felt weak, useless. He had dispelled a little of that dark mood that had fallen over him.