Marawendi

Estarfin opened his mouth to speak, but then looked away. “We should make preparations,” he said softly. But that was not his original thought.

I tilted my head and reached out to him again, “What is it?” I asked, sensing his reticence. 

A pork loin cold and pale did lie

In a pan, trussed and string uptied

What would be its uncertain fate?

But a hero soon swung open the gate -

With a spoon, like a sword, in his hand

The baster-as-weapon would save all the land!

He ground, and chopped, and then mixed up

Salt, pepper, and onion (about half a cup)

Fennel, honey, and mustard so bright

Wine, ginger, and clove, a glorious sight!

He whisked and scraped with flourish and glee

This tasteful sauce, so wonderful-ly

“And you were saying, meldanya?” My attention was focused on him again.

He sighed, lowering his head. “I worry that the tide is rising, whether we want peace or vengeance.”

Instinctively I turned my betrothal ring on my index finger, finding comfort in the action. My fingertips traced the design, the diamond stars embedded in the pattern of the Calarcirya, to ‘watch over us, always,’ Estarfin had said. I smiled at the memory.

The elves passed by a tall oak tree where a few salvaged household goods lay scattered in the grass. Parnard half-expected to see Filignil sitting among them, perhaps counting the silverware, but she was nowhere to be seen. At last they came in sight of the great old house, its front door broken and crazily hanging from one hinge, doormat still in place, a sardonic welcome to the travel-weary elves. “There it is,” he found himself saying.

Estarfin’s brow furrowed as he narrowed his gaze. “How many warriors does the Captain of Celondim command? Would he support an attack on Bree?” he asked.

“What will we do?” asked Parnard.

I had suggestions, but before I could open my mouth Barahirn spoke up. “How can I be of help?” he asked.

“We should visit the grave, should we not?” said Estarfin. 

“Yes. We go to see Aearlinn’s grave first,” I replied.