In Falatlorn, where even before I came to know of it, a death was sealing a long intricate chain of binds and revenges that was to bring together the path of a Rivendell born young scout and that of one of the last Noldor houses surviving to this age. The halls of Vanimar make a strong impression upon me still after all this years, with heavy armor and weapons adorned on walls, along with maps and exquisite paintings.
I found Reiven talking with a elf I do not know, another elf of far away lands seeking shelter or a place to put his life to better use in the war against shadow. The talk is merry but it does not stop me noticing Reiven looks tired and preoccupied and intuition tells me is not only her new title that makes her more stiff and afar.
I waited until we remained alone and asked what burdens her and if I could be of help. I expected some boring task with the Ball preparations and I was sorry to offer as I was speaking. Instead she looked long at me as if deciding what to tell, and in the end asked me to follow her. We walked to her rooms and she opened a heavy chest and raised into the light a bare sword.
I recognized it and the memories of it in different circumstances invaded my mind. The steel was simple and the weapon had close to no decoration yet it always shined well kept, the light on the facets of its blade and pommel brighter than any stone. So simple and beautiful, and with such a dark past.
I found myself struggling between my old feelings that this sword is a bad omen and the temptation to take it and caress its shining steel and remember only the good times I saw it worn with pride by my dear lost friend. And somehow it seemed diminished now, in another hand than its owner’s, less heavy and smaller, Reiven was holding it with only one hand, I could for sure do the same.
And while I was prey to this mix of feelings and memories Reiven started to tell me the story of its return. The story never really ended. And she went to find it. The sword of Daelith..
