Culufinnel

Once again Parnard the Wood-elf followed where the Noldor led, bound by that ineffable pull he always believed would guide him toward a great destiny. He had been bustling around all day, and was now securing his bedroll to his pack. Inside was a blanket, his shell sewing kit, a quartern loaf of bread, a comb, and several changes of linen.

The night air outside the scholar’s archive in Duillond was cool and the starshine glimmered down upon the worn stone pavers. Parnard stared at the stars. He had already changed into his red dressing-gown lined with white satin, worn over his sword belt. The scabbard of Steel-Thorn, having nowhere to go, flared straight backward from the slitted vent of the gown like a metallic tail, and added a careless swagger to his ensemble. 

The path was clear of other travellers. The night was still and slightly warm, Tintalle’s stars shone clear and bright. It was no hardship for Estarfin and I to ride down to Celondim. We left our horses at the stables, and walked along the river front. There were only a handful of folk even there. 

I awoke to find Estarfin absent, although his cloak was placed over me. Parnard, however, was sitting on a nearby rock, resting his chin on his hand and looking rather thoughtful. 

“We will travel soon, I believe. At least this time I do not wear iron chains,” he said upon hearing my movement.

We travelled slowly uphill, past the Stonecrop Encampment where we had arranged to meet up with Captain Culufinnel and along the road towards Herne. He was waiting by the crossroads there, and looked as if he may have been for some time. The Captain let out a single deep sigh of relief as he saw us, the warmth from which misted the air before him, showing pale against the leaden sky.

It was still late in winter. Far off, on the horizon, a veil of mist hung over the marshes of the Greyflood. Here and there, a beam of sunlight shone through a rift in the leaden clouds, and gleamed pale and cold on the distant tiled roofs of Herne, with its neat gardens walled in by stacked stones running like grey ribbons across the fields of Cardolan. A few diminutive sheep wandered about and the soft lowing of cattle was heard. 

We led rather than rode the horses down to the old broken bridge. The water was slow and low enough to ford at that point, though perhaps not in times of heavy rain. 

“Did my brother cross the river?” Culufinnel asked, as we became aware of a group of six men watching us closely from the shadows of the ruins. 

Yaelithe in Linhir was possibly her only hope. But it was a distance away, and Khahaynd was injured in body and even more so in spirit. She was not sure she would make it. She had fled the Elves, not because of their weapons, but because of their love. Strange, unknown, unwanted emotions had been evoked in her. She had no time for them.

The Appearance of Danel who, in reality was the shapeshifting Khahaynd of Umbar, sat down in a small hollow that was partially shielded from the easterly wind. She patted the mossy ground beside her with a small but strong hand “Estarfin, come, keep me warm; Culufinnon can make the fire for us when he returns,” she said, carelessly botching the name of the insignificant Captain of Celondim as she tried to soften her commanding tone.