Mistalion

A sudden stumble and a lunge forward made a disastrous idea. Only the reflexes of a trained warrior prevented a crash into the polished metal pane serving as a mirror. Sinking eyebrows and a resolute “Hmpf!” uttered before returning to the previous position. How long had she been practicing now? And how come a simple movement such as the most common dance performed in the Halls of Elrond would best someone like Himwen? Granted, she was not the best warden around, but she had her moments of accuracy and grace on guard, protecting the ones left behind.

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.