Marawendi

“And you were saying, meldanya?” My attention was focused on him again.

He sighed, lowering his head. “I worry that the tide is rising, whether we want peace or vengeance.”

Instinctively I turned my betrothal ring on my index finger, finding comfort in the action. My fingertips traced the design, the diamond stars embedded in the pattern of the Calarcirya, to ‘watch over us, always,’ Estarfin had said. I smiled at the memory.

The elves passed by a tall oak tree where a few salvaged household goods lay scattered in the grass. Parnard half-expected to see Filignil sitting among them, perhaps counting the silverware, but she was nowhere to be seen. At last they came in sight of the great old house, its front door broken and crazily hanging from one hinge, doormat still in place, a sardonic welcome to the travel-weary elves. “There it is,” he found himself saying.

Estarfin’s brow furrowed as he narrowed his gaze. “How many warriors does the Captain of Celondim command? Would he support an attack on Bree?” he asked.

“What will we do?” asked Parnard.

I had suggestions, but before I could open my mouth Barahirn spoke up. “How can I be of help?” he asked.

“We should visit the grave, should we not?” said Estarfin. 

“Yes. We go to see Aearlinn’s grave first,” I replied. 

The sky was a cloudless grey as we rode through the outer gates of Numenstaya. The heavy metal frames were unlocked, as usual, neither were there any guards. What need did folk in our lands have for guards on their gates unless in times or war?

But we learned that day. And others had paid for our lack of foresight. 

Midsummer was quickly approaching, and to Parnard’s surprise, Danel and Estarfin expected a huge feast, complete with dancing on the grass, despite the attack on Númenstaya and the killing of Aearlinn. He wondered secretly at this, but made no remark or protest, reminding himself that since it is a high feast day, a day set apart as one of the most hallowed days of the Elven calendar, the Noldor would not permit anything to disrupt their celebration, least of all a group of murdering, bloodthirsty, pillaging men.

Folk were talking, whispering almost confidentially as I passed them at the stables.

“That is Filignil. She was at Numenstaya,” 

“That is their Housekeeper. Why is she in Imladris?”