Maethelyn

Thendryt stumbled into his quarters.
He had spent all night walking around. He couldn’t sleep anymore, every night brought a nightmare.
His head was spinning. He could hear shouts and shrieks echoing through his mind.

You’re losing it Morson.

Shut up.

You can’t deny it.

Thendryt kicked a wooden stool into the wall, his metal boots breaking the wood even before it hit the wall.

Get out of my head!

Thendryt punched a thin bookshelf.

“Safe travels to you both.”
Osilivren bowed to Faorie and then to Thendryt.
Thendryt bowed his head slightly in return.
“Wherever the path may lead you. And if not sooner, then I shall surely see you in the halls of Mandos.”
Osilivren mounted his steed and set off, leaving Faorie alone on the side of the road. She stood there a moment, before turning around and slowly walked over to the stair where Thendryt sat.
“He’s not dead yet.” Thendryt said, noticing a hint of sadness in her eyes.

The clasp was small.
A center wooden piece, and two crossing swords.
The clasp turned to ash in his hands.
Thendryt blinked, but thought nothing of it. He looked up, and gazed upon the wooden structures of Imladris. The Vale was quiet, solemn.
Something caught his eye. A cloak, gently flowing through the air. He caught it with both hands, and held it.
Flames suddenly covered the cloth. Thendryt released the cloak, his eyes opening wide. He took a step back, as the cloak became confused by the fire.
“Thendryt? Something wrong?”

“I hope I'm not interrupting.”
Thendryt leaned on a pillar and gazed out on the river. Imladris was quiet, if you didn’t count the sound of the large waterfall.
Adanmiel Haerelwen shook her head, but kept her gaze upon the flowing waters.
“Didn't know you were in the Vale, when did you get back?” Thendryt asked.
“I heard you had found out during your watch.” Adanmiel said, wasting no time with unnecessary questions.
Thendryt sighed and looked down.

It had taken him long enough.
Thendryt opened the door to the far section of the Rivendell stables. He didn’t try to be silent, there was no point. He walked towards the Elf. He took his time, there was no need to rush things.
“Must you creep so much?” Dolthafaer asked as his hand fell from his horse’s mane.
Thendryt sat down, loudly, on the bench right next to the box.
“I’ll need that journal back.”

The statue was not even half finished, but there was no real question of who it was. Short hair, and an all too familiar posture.
Thendryt had walked into Imlad Gelair on impulse. But he did not expect to see a half made statue of Faorie in the glade. Who the mason was wasn’t blatantly obvious.

Thendryt…

He sat there, in the middle of the cell. The stench of death filled his nostrils.

Morson…

He couldn’t see. The cell was dark, and the lights dim.

Whoreson!

Thendryt was sitting on a stool in Rivendell’s stables, tool in hand. The evening air was chilly, but refreshing.
Bovad complained as Thendryt grabbed his hoof.
“Stop complaining.”
Bovad let out a final grumpy snort before giving in, and Thendryt started cleaning it.
“Thendryt.”
Lowering the tool, Thendryt looked up to find Nelnardis standing next to him, bottle in hand.
“Nel, long time.”
“Yes, it has been.”
Thendryt turned his attention back to the hoof.