Estarfin

By the time Alcarinquë the Glorious* had ascended to the zenith of the velvet-indigo sky, its steady, cream-colored radiance burning like a beacon, piercing the dense web of stars that the Elves named the Burning Bridge**, Parnard glided up to the manor house. Through the windowpane he saw Filignil sitting in the kitchen alone, at work polishing several silver candlesticks with a rag dipped in a mixture of vinegar and wood ash. 

Shortly after midday on the second day, I ceased pacing, sat down at my desk, took up pen and paper and began writing.

“I suppose she should be able to defend herself…but only at great need,” Parnard answered, after a long pause. “There are no Trolls to be found in these parts, I think.”

I was not sleeping well. Rather, I replayed my decision of the past two weeks regarding what I knew of Naraal, and what I withheld from Estarfin. I asked myself time and again, why I had not told him that Naraal had been outside Numenstaya to claim the Mithril owed the Black Dwarf. 

Parnard burst into the house. Seeing the two Noldor look up from the breakfast table in surprise, he gave a short gasp, then immediately collected himself, smoothed his hair back, and offered a casual nod in greeting. 

“Gaerion, now is not the time for this,”I said in warning.

Gaerion nodded that he had heard me, but replied to Estarfin, “Is the thought of Valinor beyond a simple Wood-elf? Of course not. But it is rare for those of the deep forest to be interested in what lies beyond the Great Sea. They made their choice.”