A Token of Mercy

It was hers. In the half-light the colour could have been mistaken for another, less experienced eye. It had been shorn with a sharp blade; another obvious sign to one such as he. The mingled blood and mud that caked the red hair? Of that he was less sure. He again felt the fear and anger wash over him, swiftly to be replaced with a feeling of helplessness. They were to be joined as one, he should be able to protect her as he would protect himself. As she would protect him. But he could not, had not. He had failed. His duty? Without doubt. His love? Doubly so.

Captain Culufinnel had brought the warning swiftly to them, yet Estarfin had done naught but rebuff his headings and insulted his honour. He looked briefly at the Captain. Tall, golden haired and with bright green eyes. He wondered for a moment if he had the blood of the Vanyar somewhere in his past, before he remembered his dark brother. Parnard, his dear friend, also gone. Culufinnel looked up from his meagre meal, feeling eyes upon him. Yrill was gone, scouting ahead on foot while the horses rested, ready for another long pursuit.

He looked away from the Captain, trying to calm his thoughts. He would find them both, and bring them safely home. For a moment he thought of the vengeance that he would wreak upon those that had taken them, but realised with not a little surprise that it was barely an afterthought. Of course he would slay them if he was able, but he knew that their safety must come before his bloody oath.

There had been enough blood spilled the previous night for a while at least. The camp, or village, it was unclear which it was, had been filled with warriors. They had fought well, for their kind, but the three Firstborn had been swift in their victory. And the captive had been honest, illuminating their path forwards. The dishonour had been worth it. Estarfin tried again to believe it. Swift death for Men was something he had never shied away from, for it was what they deserved and he dealt it well. But to deliberately inflict untold pain? That was the work of Morgoth and his slave Sauron, not of the Noldor.

The Captain had not watched the grisly work, had tried to distance himself from what was necessary. They had to know more; what path to follow, what condition Danel and Parnard were in, how many foes were arrayed against them. The blade revealed the truth, and Estarfin had kept his word, for he was not cruel, as he kept repeating to himself. It had been necessary. The Man would not talk, not until Estarfin had opened his belly and spilled his guts upon the dusty ground. Once he had answered the questions, Estarfin had swiftly ended his pain, as he had promised he would.

He was not cruel, but merciful.