Distractions

Dolthafaer found himself standing a lonely vigil on one of the balconies of Elrond’s house, watching the stars light up one by one as night crept across the Valley.  He was clad still in the garb he had worn upon the road, the thick fabric and leather stiff and caked in mud.  He had lost his cloak days ago in the effort to bind Danel and Estarfin’s wounds.  He was exhausted, hungry, and uncomfortable.  His task was over, and it was time for him to return home.

But he had spent a week and more creeping through the snow, watching and listening and waiting for any sign of goblin and warg, keeping watch over his company, and sometimes it was difficult for him to slip out of that vigilant state, even in the heart of Imladris.  The thought of surrendering to the comfort of a bed now left him feeling ill at ease.

Somewhere in the house down below, Laurelindo was still tending to Estarfin.  Dolthafaer grimaced as he thought back on the past few hours: the healers moving the broken soldier onto the bed, shouting and darting about the room, calling for bandages and water and herbs; Danel waiting patiently with her torn shoulder and face, insisting that they tend to Estarfin first.  The air had been thick with the scent of blood.

Dolthafaer had watched the healers work as if in a daze, paralyzed by the thought that even after all that he and his company had done to rescue him, Estarfin might still die on that bed.  At some point, Anglachelm had coaxed him away from the bedside, and Dolthafaer had followed him.  Better to give the healers their space.

Had we left but a day sooner, he had muttered, we might have brought them back in better shape than this.

But his lord had not indulged his moment of self-doubt.

It seems to me that they are alive thanks to fate, and your effort.  I can't do anything regarding fate; we are all serving to it.  But I can do something about you…

Dolthafaer had been distracted, attention torn between Anglachelm and Estarfin, bleeding across the room, and had been wholly unprepared when Anglachelm had leaned forward and drawn his own sword from its sheath with a loud shing. 

Kneel.

Dolthafaer – no longer a captain, but a lord. Arrow – no longer a company, but an Order once more.  Estarfin lived, and should survive the night, or so Laurelindo claimed.  There was still hope that Danel might see again.  Dolthafaer shook his head, a slow smile spreading across his face, and stepped away from the balcony rail.  It was all too much for him to absorb in one night.  Perhaps tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep, it would begin to make sense to him.