Veryacano

The fairest gift of strength is clemency

If the weak offend;

So kindly do not punish me

For having the fault of a friend.

When an ambassador leaves a court in a hurry, there is much talk, especially when this news comes following the tragic event of the ambassador’s lord falling into the hands of the enemy. It was now clear to most everyone in the Valley that Parnard had objected to the plans of the Lord Veryacano, for he had declared often, publically and privately, that it was a most reckless act of desperation that ought to have been reconsidered, but alas!

“I hope you did not forget to bring me some cakes, to comfort me for waiting for my dinner till I am half starved."

In the morning I rose, and went to the Hall of Fire to dine with Sogadan.

Deep within the valley, beyond the unnatural darkness where the silhouettes of long dead men dwell in absolute silence, candle light flickered in the old abandoned hut on the far side of the valley. It was a very small hut, its wood rotten and barely standing and inside full of dust and spider webs. The old wooden chair groaned every time Veryacano shuffled, as if it were about to collapse. While the rest of the group sat around the fire outside, there alone he sat through the night, writing his account of what transpired on his search for Anglachelm on his little note book.

My Lord,

The rain comes whispering, rising from the quiet of a still, cloudy day. I step off the porch, feeling the water gathering in the wet grass, running into my hair and over my face. The letter in my hand grows sodden, words running into trails of ink. The thirsty ground beneath my feet drinks deep in rain, welcoming the interlude. I move to my old, familiar, spot, standing above the waterfall, feeling the water slanting through the air, hearing it surround me. A childish gesture sends the piece of paper carelessly into the torrent beneath me, spinning out of sight in moments.

For some time, I have watched these elves in the valley of Imladris, where I lurked all the spring; speaking little to anyone. Most took no heed of me, for I did not encourage talk, and kept myself apart, listening for news of my brother. None was forthcoming. I began to think he was dead, and that by the end of the season, I must betake some other plan of action.

The words sounded strange issuing from my mouth, yet still I gave voice to them. I urged for restraint, for her to remember who and what we are. The honour that we have fought so hard to win, and to keep; that cannot be so easily discarded. Who remains upon this darkened shore that is mightier in deed or in battle than us? The count is few indeed. Yet this night we have fallen far from such lofty claims, from glory and honour
to something far darker, far less fitting for those of our illustrious history.

It begins like this.

Slow, measured strokes ease the blood from the blade. The flickering firelight illuminates a face as smooth and expressionless as a statue. Long ages ago, she had wept during this ritual – purging kindred blood, night after night, from a blade stained with terrible deeds, wondering whether anything could be worth the destruction they had caused. But it is many years since Nirhen has allowed herself to weep.