Amlarad

I recall only one word. 'Folly'.

Did he speak other than that? I cannot remember. We stood on the crest of the pass, looking once more down towards the great rift in tthe ice, the weather finally clear enough for us to attempt the icewall. My heart heavy but determined as we looked out over that vast white field. His word a numbing truth, and a goad to action. What else is there? What does one do when one doubts one's lord? The oath itself must suffice, duty when love is breaking.

The cold is inside me now. Though I wear the beautiful cloak he gifted to me, I am a numb thing. An icemaiden. The night is old, moves its weary way to its inevitable end. I have no pity for it and no interest.

He is gone to his own solitude and I am encased in mine. I tried to sleep, a pain in my chest awoke me, an icicle as sharp as a betrayal. I see it now he is gone, what I have done. The first steps of the oathbreaker. I am horrified at myself, look at my own hands writing, loathing them as they move and record my own folly.

The soft rain is more a mist, drifting about me. I do not mind it. At times it brings an ache to my leg... but that is so much a part of me now that I rarely heed it.

I have left subtle signs for him. I give him seven days. If he is about, he will find them and come to me on this hill. I think at times he needs no signs deliberately set to find what he wants. I could wander, but in truth it is better he comes to me. I am not chasing him up hill and down dale. He is likely to turn it into a challenge, once he knows I am on his scent.

Now the rain has stopped it is time to move on. The raindrops along the top of the door rest in a line, like sparrows on a branch and glisten enticingly. The beautiful green world is washed and refreshed. Time to go.

Ease returns. We walked out northwards to the ice wall with the misunderstandings fresh between us. We came back to the hearth with them set aside.

There is a space to the right of me that is his. The furs keep his great shape, a hollowing pressed into the lie of each hair. I run my hand lightly over that cold form as he stands brooding over the quiet valley.

She is singing. In all my days I have never heard such. She has been singing for half the day. The first real sounds I have had from her ... and she is singing. As we neared the glooming hills and narrow passes she opened her lips ... and a thread of colour came forth. The sound comingled with the cries of the suprised birds, enticed them to open their throats and join her.

My body is heavy and languid, yesterday's journey settled in my limbs. I am careful not to spill ink on the furs, but I am too content in my warmth to move. We scouted the northern route from here towards the ice wall. I would know what I face before we move on properly.

North and east with the elf beside me. Fate and fortune rise about me like the dust on the road. Here I ride, back into the north, the occasional wind chill as it blows from the further northlands, off the snows. Across the lands once enlivened by long forgotton Fornost. Even as I ride here, my linnet will be preparing her flock for its journey to scrabble about the ruins, inspire her to sing a new tale of Arvedui.

A delightful day. Yes. I rode with the elf maid obedient beside me, and my few men about me. North from the crowded, fetid encampment, out into the hills around the northmens' camp, Esteldin.