With Ithilwe's head against my shoulder, the rest of the evening is spent silently pondering what is to come next.
In my hand I now hold a blade of untested beauty; a work of Gondolin forged anew by elf and dwarf alike, of steel that was wrent and blackened by the fierce whip of a Balrog in the fall of the city. A gift that was bestowed upon me by a dear friend, with the promise to do works with it worthy of its craft. Yet when I look into the steel, I fear the reflection that stares back out at me.
An agreement to a task that puts my life at risk; a last attempt should all other options fail in hunting this Domdrudis. An agreement that shall stay secret ere the time comes. I am warned to mind my temper and my tendency to rush headlong into danger. I am warned that sometimes, true courage is staying behind with those whom I love.
A quest through the wilds of Evendim turns into a chase into the colds of Forochel. Indignation and hurt burns in my chest against the bitter chill. When our quarry is found, our friends, the warmth of indignation turns into flames of fury, and indiscriminately do I spit my hurt on anyone who speaks.
Cold steel against my cheek that draws warm blood. A foolish, spiteful son of Fëanor. Blood falls upon the snow, and the contrast is telling. Anger smolders down to regret and shame. The scar and the blame are mine to bear. It is not her judgement that is to be under scrutiny. His hands I cannot feel worthy enough to hold. My words might as well be another blade drawn. Am all that I am destined to be bound to the blood inside of me?
