Daegond

Estarfin reached out to carefully touch the fabric of my dress. “It is beautiful,” he said. He smiled brightly, softly, almost as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. 

“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 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. Galadhion beheld in Daegond all that he once was, before, and all that he should have been. That their project was grisly bothered Galadhion not at all at this moment, for his war-damaged friend was now happy.

Tolmen straightened his ancient styled robe with a critical eye, it would be busy in the hall with many a comrade and mourner to give the hammer hound a good send off. Not that Tolmen had ever met the quendë but he felt he should pay his respects also. Picking up a woven sack as he was leaving his lodging he limped down the road cursing the newish and unworn boots he had bought at the market.

The Captain of the Arrow stood alone before Daegond's fresh cairn, after night had fallen and there was only the silver light of the stars and the rustle of the wind in the valley of Imladris. Unable to bear the crowds, she had watched the ceremony silently from atop a tree, hidden from all sight amidst the branches.

How do you say farewell to an adversary? How do you come to terms with the fact that an enemy has journeyed on to the next life? Sadness and sorrow for the loss of a life? Rejoicing that your own life is now safe and free from further ache and torment? Would you feel nothing?