Daegond

“Let us look for Estarfin in the Hall of Fire, and we can talk to Sogadan again. As you said to him, we have more tales to tell - or peradventure, there are tales being told there now about us,” Parnard said with a grin, brushing off his brand-new green velvet doublet and making a few adjustments to his twiggy crown. “Am I presentable, Cousin?”

Well, Diary. Today's entry is a little unusual. But then unusual seems to be my usual condition of late.

Exiting the Hall of Fire -- the usual music, dancing, wine, all very much the same, although there was a new elleth and meeting her was very pleasant; Fingolian proposed to return to his home in the Golden Wood, and was given a great deal of well-meaning advice, not least about the pass. If only he had the sheer muscularity of the letter I came home to -- but I get ahead of myself.

After Imladris Interlude

“Mmm, I see,” said Parnard, nodding. “That this rankled in your breast so, all this time: you should have told me sooner.” *

The words stunned Estarfin into a temporary silence. Even after the passage of years, Parnard still did not understand him, did not understand how deep of a wound his failure in the mountains had caused him.

***

Not often was the grim visage of the Hound of Vanimar a face one might describe as anything but cold, cruel, contemptuous. Yet after he and his dearest friend, the Gondolindrim bastard, had finished their great work, his face lit with a strangely innocent joy. Themodir beheld in Daegond all that he once was, before, and all that he should have been. That their project was grisly bothered Themodir not at all at this moment, for his war-damaged friend was now happy.

Captain Sáranassë of the Order of the Arrow was many things, as she stood in Lady Manadhlaer’s office. She was tall, and fair in her austere way, and armored. She was a daughter of the Noldor, a creature of stealth and odd habits. She was a hardened warrior and a keeper of secrets. The one thing Sáranassë was not, by any means, was amused.

Manadhlaer awoke in the dark, in more than one way.

Someone had thoughtfully tucked her diary under her arm. Had she a quill and ink? They must be in her pouch, if she could find it.

With infinite care, she put her feet -- disguised, as she had thought, in mismatched boots, which suited her sloppy grey tunic -- on the floor. She groped around a bit, head pounding; she tried not to move more quickly, lest she vomit again.

Arradril of the Order of the Arrow hooked a finger into the collar of her immaculate tabard, as though it were too tight. It had in fact been made to measure, to drape perfectly over the reinforced gambeson that Arrows wore in order to creep about the forest in silence. But Captain Sáranassë was, of late, insisting on visibility -- at least part of the time. So Arradril wore the indigo, inspired by Gondolin's House of the Swallow, and bore herself gravely when within the Vale. Most of the time.

Well, Diary, I suppose now it is true what people say, that one does not really know a person until one has lived with them.

That is, "with" in a very elastic sense -- for Captain Sáranassë has given me her own clean but spare bunk in Arrow Hall, and has taken to sleeping out of doors in a tree instead. She assures me she actually prefers it so. Rámarillë is clearly baffled by this. She circles one tree or another -- whether it be the correct tree, or no -- and honks very loudly into the air.