Estarfin

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. 

“To the sward, and to warmth and life.”

I had a vision of both Parnard and Estarfin racing for blankets, making a fire and sitting as close to it as they could without catching alight. The bitter cold was now pushing them beyond reasoned actions. But it was a foolish thought. None of us would be running anywhere. 

Estarfin kicked some loose soil into the dying embers of the fire to smother it. Time to move on. 

Continued from:  Into the Marsh: Part One | The Laurelin Archives

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. 

Estarfin readied his shield and spear and headed straight at Naraal, determined the Corsair would die this time. He had eluded the Noldo in Nan Wathren. It would not happen again. The man was responsible for Danel’s capture, apparently enthralled by her, and dared to touch her. She had struck him in return, but such an affront to her, to any lady of his people, could only result in this. The Dwarf could wait a little while for his turn to die.

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.