Estarfin

Dolthafaer found himself standing a lonely vigil on one of the balconies of Elrond’s house, watching the stars light up one by one as night crept across the Valley.  He was clad still in the garb he had worn upon the road, the thick fabric and leather stiff and caked in mud.  He had lost his cloak days ago in the effort to bind Danel and Estarfin’s wounds.  He was exhausted, hungry, and uncomfortable.  His task was over, and it was time for him to return home.

A scene of confusion met her eyes as Uilossiel opened the door to the healing room, piles of fresh bandages in her arms. A mangled body lay upon the bed, which she assumed to be Lord Estarfin, and Lady Danel sat very still in the corner of the room, attended by Elvealin. Eliriael and Laurelindo were already hovering over the patient on the bed, while various other lords of Vanimar spoke in hushed tones nearby. She caught a glimpse of Dolthafaer standing in a corner conversing with Lord Anglachelm, but quickly looked away.

It continued to snow. It was enough to cover the deep scar left on the white ground by Estarfin’s sled, and the footprints of those carrying Danel’s stretcher.

Talkale looked down at the white parchment stretched upon the teak desk in front of him, wondering to himself if he was following the proper course of action. His intentions were good and he had already raised the matter once. No action had occurred, so further steps were needed. Such were the burdens he shouldered and at times they could become wearyingly heavy. Rolling his head from one side to the other to stretch his neck, he dipped his quill into lavender ink and began to write in his usual beautiful script.

***

Lord of Bar-En-Vanimar Anglachelm,

Dolthafaer stared down at the valley, the snow reflecting the sun’s dying light.  A lone howl drifted up to the crumbling stone ruin where the Arrow had stopped to rest.  He grimaced, tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword, and turned to face the rest of his company.

“We have rested enough.  Time to move on.”

Fresh pain ripped through him and tore his conscious mind back to wakefulness. He let out a wordless cry of pain and fear as agony tore through his leg. In desperation to stop the pain, to defend himself, he reached out for his shield or his spear. His searching and grasping fingers found nothing but snow as he raised his head to look down his body at the black-furred and yellow-eyed warg that had him firmly in its gaping maw. His leg was being slowly crushed between the steel plates of his grieves as the beast sought a way to get to the vulnerable flesh beneath.

Dolthafaer regarded his company with a critical eye, taking in their thick cloaks and heavy boots and somber colors, and nodded his proud approval.  He passed each of them a small flask of firewhiskey, warning them to use it sparingly in the bitter cold.  He reminded them of their mission, informed them of the dangers they might face, and a moment before he would have started them down the path, Veryacano approached them.  The Hammer lord briefly inspected the gathering before leaving them with a final order:

The blizzard abated three days later.

Limiriel draped the heavy white fur around her shoulders, clasping the silver mallyrn leaf at her shoulder. Blue smoke drifted up from the dying fire as she knelt down to put a small blue pouch filled with gold coins next to the sleeping dwarf.