Tingruviel

Somehow things had changed. Friends were bidding farewell, for different reasons. As she watched some of them leave the valley through the open window, all she could hope for them was that their journey would bring them someplace safe.

She took a short step forward towards the vacant desk below the window. Her dress forbade any wider movements. The grey and gold silk robe she had worn for such a long time felt heavy like armour. Would she have need of it? She smirked, thinking she should stop wearing mouse-like raiment and perhaps clothe herself in more vivid colours.

We reached the Valley in good time. Lord Estarfin was more quiet than usual, perhaps contemplating the making of the sword he had been charged with crafting for our Lord Anglachelm. Close by the chalk path that leads to the Valley, we met a elf lady, a soldierly-type, by the name of Limiriel.

A sudden stumble and a lunge forward made a disastrous idea. Only the reflexes of a trained warrior prevented a crash into the polished metal pane serving as a mirror. Sinking eyebrows and a resolute “Hmpf!” uttered before returning to the previous position. How long had she been practicing now? And how come a simple movement such as the most common dance performed in the Halls of Elrond would best someone like Himwen? Granted, she was not the best warden around, but she had her moments of accuracy and grace on guard, protecting the ones left behind.

“An outsider could believe that certain actions would have been avoidable. That the officers and leaders should have learnt by now how a certain young elf with golden hair would bring despair to their house. Is that the only truth or is it just one way of looking at a two-sided coin?”

     “Again.”
I grimace, pulling back to stand ready, my sword held out before me. My tormentor grins at me unrepentantly, arms folded across his chest.

 "Freedom. What is it worth when faced with the the possibility of losing the one you love? Would you risk your life to save your hearts desires?" Tingruviel takes a deep breath, shading her eyes from the stark sun. The garden is still, not a flower moving. Music can be heard nearby, as everyone is celebrating the coming of spring. The ink bottle almost topples over as she realigns her position on the blanket. Even though Uthaer made his best efforts to level the ground, the grass underneath the blanket bends it into hillls, making it perilous to leave anything on top of it.