Pining for Home

Brasseniel studied the snowflakes that fell into her open palm, shining white against the black leather glove only for an instant before they melted in the warmth of her breath. 

How long had it been since she had followed Vanimar into the Hithaeglir?  Weeks?  And yet she still found this snow a marvel.  It had snowed in the Greenwood, certainly, but the forest had sheltered its people from the brunt of the winter storms.  She remembered the small clearing not far from her home where she and her sister used to play as children, screaming with laughter as they pelted each other with balls of snow.  It had been a novelty, then.  Exciting.

Not a burden, as it was now. 

Not dangerous. 

Brasseniel sighed, brushed the snowflakes from her palm, and pulled her thick cloak more snugly around her.  She peered out from beneath the furry hood at the other faces gathered around the campfire, stern and silent and absorbed in their own thoughts.  These were her new sisters, brothers – warriors of the Hammer, one and all.  Mighty.  Prideful.  Charming.  Clever.  Some she admired, while she found others infuriating.  A true family. 

Why, then, did she feel so lonely amongst them now? 

She missed the Greenwood.  She missed the simplicity of her life beneath that twisting canopy, where time had been marked by hunts and feasts while she had earned her keep within the guard.  She had not realized just how much she missed it until she had spoken to Barangolf, Tinurendis, and Daelinn on this journey, simple folk from a simple land of simple pleasures.  Even in the danger of the snowy dark, they had laughed, sharing stories and even poems from their home.

They were gone, now.  Back to Imladris.  Having found the corpses of a number of their lost friends, they had parted ways from the rest of the company.  True folk of the Greenwood, unconcerned by the troubles of those who lived outside their borders. 

That is unfair, Brasseniel chided herself, but too late.  Her heart sank.  Someday, she had told herself, she would return.  But she had changed since she had left that wood.  She had new brothers, new sisters.  Danger no longer meant only that which threatened her home.  Home meant more than just the Greenwood. 

Parnard, too, was gone – back to Imladris as well, to attend the funeral of one of her new brothers.  He had left at dawn, before she even had the chance to say goodbye.  She wondered if he had any words of advice for an orphan of the Greenwood.  He had been far from home for much longer than she. 

The funeral.

Brasseniel heard someone sigh from across the fire and her heart clenched.  She had not known Themodir well – or at all, in fact – until they had set out for the Hithaeglir.  He had been a charming, brave, honourable fellow, as devoted to the Hammer as he had been to the one who had awaited him in Imladris.  He had not deserved this fate.  It should have taken more than a handful of goblins to snuff his life from him.  

It was selfish to pine over a home she still had the power to return to when one of her new brothers would never step foot on this land again – to miss friends that she would see again, when Ages uncounted might pass before he again laid eyes on the one he loved.  It was selfish, and it was stupid.  This was no time to feel sorry for herself.

So she brushed a stealthy hand across her eyes and rose abruptly to her feet.  Her fur cloak swept behind her as she turned on her heel and stalked away from the campfire to take Sargiel’s place at the watch.