Estarfin

‘Beautiful hair’, his mother had called him, and rightly so. Though it had a will of its own, when brushed and combed out it was a thick wavy mane that any would be proud of. 

“It is like dry twigs,” he had said to me when I first set comb to it. Nay, it took but a little patience to restore its vitality. 

He has been on my mind again of late. Just a passing thought, here and there. I miss him still. Yes, I disappointed him. And how I wish I had not. But he judged Estarfin poorly at Amon Ereb, and I could not merely stand by, as I should have. I challenged my patron, my protector...my friend? I know I would do the same again. I would speak up for Estarfin regardless. But perhaps with more grace and respect due to my Prince. I wonder if he ever really forgave me?

(Picture by Estarfin.)

The festival has ended and we three must make ready for our journey to Mirkwood. We shall stop a short time at Imladris however, to take stock of what we need in crossing the Hithaeglir this time of year. Our purpose after that is to see Parnard reaches his home, and if at all possible, she to whom he would be betrothed. 

“What is this thing,” Parnard asked Estarfin, holding out an oddly-shaped object.

I remember...

Home, before the Dagor Bragolach, before the fire and the dragon and the armies of orcs. Before retreat, unthinkable until then, before riding to whatever sanctuary could be found in the lands of Ambarussa. Before so very many were lost.

Maenasroth, the caves of crafting, under Barad Eithel was a vast underground smithy. Columns of marble and basalt were carved from the bedrock itself, and each was hung with crystal lamps that flooded the space with light and colour. The sound was almost overwhelming, a hundred smiths worked bellows, quenched steel, beat red-hot metal with a hammer or filed and ground edges onto finished pieces.