Rainith

There is something wrong with Parnard. I know not what it is at this moment, but something is upsetting him mightily.

Whether it was night or not, the others did not know, but Belegos' instincts told him that the sun had set a while back. It was impossible to tell under the lichen-smothered boughs of Mirkwood. Day was only ever an almost imperceptible, lighter shade of darkness that passed quicker than what seemed normal. A storm had rolled overhead and it had been raining for hours.

Elloen had a bandage in his hand, and he was rolling it on the arm of yet another wounded malledhrim soldier. The air about him was foul, and there was little comfort in this place, at the camp of the shore at western Mirkwood. He heard the soldier thanking him and he smiled briefly as an answer.

I sat upon the sward next to Estarfin, keeping watch, keeping vigil as he succumbed to the draught of sleeping potion Parnard had slipped into the wine skin.

“I am so very tired” he whispered.

As I wait, the sun slips slowly down behind the trees, so that the leaves blush with rosy light. I light the lamps myself, kindling each small flame one by one. In the gathering darkness, the stone maiden stares out into the distance she cannot see, one hand always reaching out, expression lost in shadow.