Danel

It was two days after Estarfin, Danel and Parnard had ridden out of Numenstaya, heading, they believed, for the Wildwood. Exactly what the older Noldor and their Wood-elf friend were planning was beyond Fearanië’s ken. She had, of course, offered her help. She would ride with them. But they had said ‘no’ in a clear but kindly tone.

Once again Parnard the Wood-elf followed where the Noldor led, bound by that ineffable pull he had always believed would guide him toward a great destiny. He had been bustling around all day, and was now securing his bedroll to his pack. Inside was a blanket, his shell sewing kit, a quartern loaf of bread, a comb, and several changes of linen.

The night air outside the scholar’s archive in Duillond was cool and the starshine glimmered down upon the worn stone pavers. Parnard stared at the stars. He had already changed into his red dressing-gown lined with white satin, worn over his sword belt. The scabbard of Steel-Thorn, having nowhere to go, flared straight backward from the slitted vent of the gown like a metallic tail, and added a careless swagger to his ensemble. 

The path was clear of other travellers. The night was still and slightly warm, Tintalle’s stars shone clear and bright. It was no hardship for Estarfin and I to ride down to Celondim. We left our horses at the stables, and walked along the river front. There were only a handful of folk even there. 

We did not see nor hear from Parnard the following day. I was not totally surprised. We both knew we had disappointed him, but we could not do as he wished, and help him find his stolen armour in Gondor.