Naraal

The force of the impact knocked him off his feet, throwing him hard against the wall. For a long time, Khardun just lay there, his heart pounding against his ribs. Slowly he slid his hands under him, wincing as his skinned palms scraped against grit, and pushed himself up. A fine grey dust of pulverized rock hung in the freezing air and in his beard. He rubbed his eyes. 

Having ridden with urgent speed from Celondim, the elf dismounted before his horse could even come to a halt.

Naraal let himself drift in the dream world. She was looking appreciatively at him, as she held a piece of the armour Tazakr had found. Then she was running away through the deep snow towards the edge of a cliff. He gave chase. But he was only wearing one of his Umbari tunics and his feet were bare. It was freezing. Then, thankfully, she halted. Something large and dark had climbed up the cliff, and now stood beside her…protectively. 

He was dreaming.

She had red hair, long and flowing unbound. The breeze swept it back, and lightly tangled it in invisible fingers. It took up part of her red gown as well, so that it ballooned out behind her. She laughed. 

By the time Alcarinquë the Glorious* had ascended to the zenith of the velvet-indigo sky, its steady, cream-colored radiance burning like a beacon, piercing the dense web of stars that the Elves named the Burning Bridge**, Parnard glided up to the manor house. Through the windowpane he saw Filignil sitting in the kitchen alone, at work polishing several silver candlesticks with a rag dipped in a mixture of vinegar and wood ash. 

“I suppose she should be able to defend herself…but only at great need,” Parnard answered, after a long pause. “There are no Trolls to be found in these parts, I think.”

I was not sleeping well. Rather, I replayed my decision of the past two weeks regarding what I knew of Naraal, and what I withheld from Estarfin. I asked myself time and again, why I had not told him that Naraal had been outside Numenstaya to claim the Mithril owed the Black Dwarf. 

Parnard burst into the house. Seeing the two Noldor look up from the breakfast table in surprise, he gave a short gasp, then immediately collected himself, smoothed his hair back, and offered a casual nod in greeting. 

It was the gloaming time, the time of half-light when day settled into night. A reddish hue colored the western horizon as the birds quieted, tucking beaks into wings to sleep while restive frogs began their nocturnal chorus of lusty croaking.

Time flies.