Rainith

   I feel as though there is a fog inside my head, and I am suffocated by it. The captain is explaining at great length about the dangers of sending more after the missing scouts, but I barely understand the words he says. The light touch at my arm becomes almost supporting – my friend and mentor, who insisted on accompanying me, gives me a concerned look that I do not register.

“Rainith, if something happened to him, would you do the same? Would you go after him?”

     Company is resting deep in the forest in a chilling afternoon in September, Mirkwood.

     It was Galdorion's eighth day in the patrol. He did end up here despite the ruling of his own house and traditions, and even the tears of his beloved Rainith. The latter had more devastating an effect  then he could ever imagine, but in his mind what he was doing was righteous.

     “Again.”
I grimace, pulling back to stand ready, my sword held out before me. My tormentor grins at me unrepentantly, arms folded across his chest.

Galdorion is gone from the river-bank almost as quickly as he arrives, eagerly seeking out another opportunity to advance himself here. Normally his enthusiasm is infectious, but this afternoon I simply stand where I am and watch him leave, guiltily fingering the letter still concealed in my pocket. If Galdorion received anything from the party that brought this letter he has not mentioned it – unless he has seen Lord Tyelepoma, he may not even know about the news it brings.

Shafts of sunlight slant through the canopy above, winking in and out as the wind stirs the leaves into new patterns. The wood is filled with light: it glances off the rippling water to either side, casting glimmering reflections back across the surface. Somewhere among the trees a bird sings, undisturbed by the silent movements of the sentries I know patrol nearby. But for them, this land would almost seem untouched by the troubles outside its borders. There is peace here – yet all are aware that it is hard-fought, and hard-won.

I stand on the edge of the circle of firelight, looking out into the night. The hunter has already left, vanishing into the gloom, and as Lady Athlidhrael turns back to the gathering behind us there is a moment when the whole night seems to stretch emptily before me. The slight breeze lifts my hair, sending strands of it dancing across my face. Without the encircling mountains of Rivendell, the carpet of stars above seems almost endless. I remember previous journeys here: riding at night, moving like a shadow among these mournful lands.

The leather grip is wearing away under my hand. I shift my grip slightly, making a note to see about getting the wrap replaced before we leave. I stand motionless for a moment, closing my eyes and recalling darkness and stone, shouts, and learned responses. Then I begin to move.

 The rain on my face feels like tears. Drops splash onto the surface of the lake, making the ripples dance, and patter through the leaves of the trees. I pull my legs up to my chest and sit huddled in my cloak, heedless of the wet ground, or of the mud staining my bare feet. Even now the words of Lord Anglachelm ring in my mind as though etched there permanently. The view is beautiful – shading in grey, the rain gives the lake a bleak, haunted look. It is a fitting setting for the ghosts I bring with me.

 The second time we met, we spoke of freedom. In the grand halls of his kin, once most of the guests had left, he showed me the wonders they'd collected. Among the treasures there was a small songbird in a cage – something meant to lighten a room I suppose, or bring joy to those within. I wondered how they could bear to confine something so sweet – to deprive it of room to fly and yet still expect it to bring them joy.