Thendryt

“So-did you know?  Is that why you pulled me out of the Warband?”  Lilleduil was at Thorenhad, having been summoned there by Elrohir.  They were finishing dinner.

The son of Elrond didn’t smile exactly, though the corner of his mouth twitched upwards for a moment.

This time was different.
Thendryt had been back to Ost Ringdyr several times during the past three months, but the stationed soldiers usually avoided him. This time was different.
Thendryt dismounted Bovad in the middle of the courtyard, only to be surrounded.
He looked around. He didn’t like the look on their faces. Excitement, fear and spite could be felt in the very air.
Something had changed.

“Who goes there?”
Thendryt threw a glance upwards. A guard stood atop the southern portcullis of Glân Vraig, holding a torch.
The ride from Delossad had taken over a day, and Bovad looked eager to be done with it.
A second guard came into view. With wide eyes he seemed to recognize Thendryt, and hurried out of sight.
“Open the gate, it’s the Watcher!” Thendryt barely heard it.
Slowly Bovad walked into the fortress. The guard who’d seen him first was down so quick you’d think his life depended on it.

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.

Delossad.

Dolthafaer frowned at the still form of Laelas – the name of the injured Elf they had come across in the darkness of Delossad – lying sprawled upon a thick bed of grass and half-closed flowers.  He was a Wood-Elf, friend of Barangolf and Tinurendis, one of those missing from the caravan that they had been searching for in the Hithaeglir. 

Dolthafaer halted at the head of the stairs and cast his eyes over the shadowed courtyard below.  To his staggering relief, Yrill was not to be seen.  She must have reached the shelter of the pillars.  He had not heard the sound of an arrow being released, but even so – this was an enemy that did not deserve to take down his huntress.

There were Men of the North in the Trollshaws. 

Dolthafaer had not been expecting trouble on this routine patrol.  It had simply been an excuse to leave the Valley for a day or two and stretch his legs over familiar paths.  He had asked Yrill and Luthelian to join him almost as an afterthought; he wished to see how his most troublesome recruit was improving, and he knew better by now than to leave Yrill behind when there was even the smallest chance of adventure.

As he closed his eyes, he felt how the room became smaller.
He could feel the dread crawl up from deep within himself and gnaw at his heart.
The scars on his body ached, as he remembered each and every one.

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.