Maethelyn

The ruins of Delossad were usually never completely quiet. Birds nesting in the forgotten halls, or the wind howling through narrow passages usually gave the darkness character. Not tonight. Tonight, Thendryt heard nothing, save from his own boots and breathing. Even though he was wearing chainmail, he was usually able to sneak in the darkness. At least to an extent. But the silence that surrounded him was treacherous, and each little chain in his mail seemed to make some kind of crackle.

Thendryt walked up the damp steps, lightened up only by the torch in his hand. He had left Bovad near the entrance, the horse could fend for himself.
Thendryt’s boots echoed through the empty halls. He could see nothing beyond his torch as he made his way further into Delossad.
Weakness.
The word echoed through his head. It seemed real, as if the darkness surrounding him was whispering it into his ear.
Through tunnels and halls he walked, ever deeper. Each hall darker than the previous, the whispering darkness all around him.

The sun slowly came up and the Vale of Imladris started lighting up. After his meeting with Faorie, Thendryt had walked Bovad over the bridge and around the settlement.
They stopped on a height that overlooked the entire Vale. A gentle breeze lifted his cloak slightly from the ground.
There was a slight mist forming around the Elven architecture, and around the rivers around it. Thendryt realized that the scenery was something that his own kind would write poems and sing songs about.

”Here!” Faorie shouted.
Thendryt brought Bovad to a halt. His hood and cloak were gently blowing in the wind, the Vale was quiet.
“Come down.” Faorie smiled as she looked up.
Thendryt looked at her for a moment and dismounted. 
“Something you need?” He stroked Bovad’s mane and turned to face her.
“Come with me.” Faorie turned and started walking beside the river. “Hurry up now!”
Bovad pushed Thendryt.

Thendryt closed his eyes as he tasted his first ale in months.

The Campaign in the Misty Mountains was over, and he was eager to return to the Coldfells.
Vanimar had lost an Elf. Not that he was overly surprised, it was a military campaign after all, but it seemed a big deal to the Elves. He hadn’t been at the funeral, he had no reason to. He just wanted to get out of here, as soon as possible.
He let his hand move up to his chest. The chainmail under the tunic felt heavy, even if the wound from Dolthafaer’s arrow was mostly healed.

The cold wind in the heights of the Misty Mountains swirled around Thendryt. The outpost-fort of Hrimbarg’s cold stonewalls surrounded him. The Warband cloak was restless on his back, the cloth moving violently in the wind. It felt heavier than usual.
You might not fear pain, nor death. But what of exile, I wonder?
Like Dolthafaer would know anything about his fears. Thendryt lifted his hand and touched the dark stone. He clenched his fist and hit the wall.
The damn Elf was right.

Thendryt was being followed. He knew it. Small sounds in the dark, other sharp sounds when he was alone. Which Elf was it? Had to be one from Vanimar.
He looked at the Vanimar Elves. Which one? He needed to know. But how? He left a trail too great to be able to be able to fool the Elf. Unless… He casually glanced out the window of Hrimbarg. The snow was whirling in the blizzard outside. He smiled. Perfect.
Thendryt equipped his gloves. The fur under the plate would be tested, he knew, but he’d endure it. He had endured worse.

Khalis rapidly pulled his shirt down when Thendryt walked into view. Lilleduil was in the middle of applying some kind of salve to his chest and was abruptly interrupted by his movement. Khalis whispered something in Elvish to Lilleduil and walked out. He passed Thendryt in haste, flashing by him.
“What was that about?” Thendryt asked. Faorie cleared her throat but otherwise didn’t answer.
“Thendryt.” Lilleduil said. “Are you hurt? You know I always love stitching you up.”