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Thendryt sat quietly and gazed upon the river. Imladris was quiet, and dark. He should retire, but he wasn’t very tired. His wound was almost completely healed. He knew he’d get another scar, but at this point he didn’t mind. Scars were his history, written over his entire existence.
As soon as Thendryt regained consciousness he bolted up to a sitting position. It wasn’t one of his brightest ideas, as the wound in his abdomen opened and a searing pain made sure that if Thendryt wasn’t awake before, he sure was now.
The snowy peaks of the Misty Mountains appeared darker, he thought.
“Thendryt.” Lowering his head and slowly turned it towards Faorie, he gave her a dark glare. She shouldn’t be brought into this situation.