Cinnamon Raymaker
Peering ahead, Elwing watches as Aztryd and her squalling bundle disappear around the last corner. She hears the mumbled voices of several individuals, both male and female from the sounds rising and falling. Though what they are discussing she has no idea as their harsh language means nothing to her untrained ears. She decides to remain alert and listens to the rise and fall of tone, awaiting any word from Aztryd. Hearing none, she relaxes just a little.
Though relieved, Elwing is startled by scuffling sounds appearing from somewhere nearby. Moments later, several more footsteps can be heard tramping through the tunnels. Voices grew still, though words unknown to her escape here and there. Her curiosity rising, she stands silently in the shadow, waiting to see what will unfold.
A few seconds later, she notes the appearance of a group of stocky dwarves. Remaining quiet, she gathers her uncle's cloak about her and watches in silence as the hunting party passes by her, throwing inquisitive looks her way but remaining resolute in their passage.
Knowing that Aztryd has returned to her clan and home, Elwing relaxes a little and slumps to the floor wrapping her feet inside the large cloak in an attempt to warm them before they freeze. She leans back against the cold stone of the tunnels and closes her eyes, remembering the last time she had visited this once warm and inviting place, which had then been hustling and bustling and full of life and hope.
Right now it seems that hope has been dashed. It has been playing on her mind, that disgusting foul stench of charred remains. Three times now she has had this stench assail her senses. Each time the knowledge that the darkness is gaining more and more of a foothold in Middle Earth and making advances on the Undying Lands fills her heart with terror - not for herself, but for those she has come to know and care for.
A tiny seed is planted inside her being, the seed of memory of the time she held the Silmaril. The strength to overcome pain and suffering. The strength to live on through the deepest sense of loss. Elwing is no stranger to loss. Loss has been her constant companion through the Ages. Just when she feels has found kin and friends, loss is again appearing in her life. Blessed Iluvatar, how many times must she go through loss. Is this then her curse? Her prize for rescuing the Silmaril? And the Silmaril - where is it? Where is her beloved Earendil? This time she will not lose. Determination spurs her on.
So many questions unanswered, Elwing realizes she is tired and ravenous after her exertions. She hears footsteps approaching through the dimly lit tunnel and as she looks up she sees one of the hunting party return bearing a tray with what looks like food and drink balanced upon it. He places it down beside her as he glances her way. "Thank you, little father," she croaks, shivering and pulling the cloak around her more tightly.
Elwing watches as the dwarf makes his way back to the light and gradually becomes aware of the familiar smell of stew. She reaches for the bowl and spoon, and, feeling the warmth taking away the iciness of her hands, she slowly samples the rich flavours, the warmth of the liquid spreading through her body, from the inside outwards. The bowl is soon empty, and she is feeling a little more alive and hopeful. Reaching for the tankard, she takes a drink, just as the dwarf returns carrying some blankets. This time Elwing manages a grateful smile. Her toes peep out from under the cloak as she reaches for the blankets. The dwarf motions for her to follow. Elwing carefully pushes herself up from the floor, using the wall for leverage and support. She picks up the blankets and stumbles along the tunnel after the dwarf. Just around the next corner is another small opening into a quiet recess at the rear of the main caves. The dwarf motions Elwing to enter and sets about making sure a fire is set and tended before stepping just outside the room.
Elwing takes stock of her surroundings, noting several scattered belongings. It would seem the prior inhabitants of this room had left suddenly for the safety of the deeper caves. She spies a pair of brown boots discarded on the floor and carefully makes her way to retrieve them. Measuring them against her feet she is pleased when she recognizes they will do the required task. She sits on a nearby wooden stool and pulls on the boots, feeling the woolen insides soft against her bitterly cold feet. Standing carefully she grabs the stool and places it in front of the warmth of the cheering flames, then sits and reaches her hands towards them. Gradually feeling the cold drain away, she realizes that if she doesn't get some sleep she will again fall into decline as she had after racing home to Alqualonde the last time. Resolutely she wraps herself in the blankets and stretches out near the fire, falling into a deep exhausted sleep.
> Next
Though relieved, Elwing is startled by scuffling sounds appearing from somewhere nearby. Moments later, several more footsteps can be heard tramping through the tunnels. Voices grew still, though words unknown to her escape here and there. Her curiosity rising, she stands silently in the shadow, waiting to see what will unfold.
A few seconds later, she notes the appearance of a group of stocky dwarves. Remaining quiet, she gathers her uncle's cloak about her and watches in silence as the hunting party passes by her, throwing inquisitive looks her way but remaining resolute in their passage.
Knowing that Aztryd has returned to her clan and home, Elwing relaxes a little and slumps to the floor wrapping her feet inside the large cloak in an attempt to warm them before they freeze. She leans back against the cold stone of the tunnels and closes her eyes, remembering the last time she had visited this once warm and inviting place, which had then been hustling and bustling and full of life and hope.
Right now it seems that hope has been dashed. It has been playing on her mind, that disgusting foul stench of charred remains. Three times now she has had this stench assail her senses. Each time the knowledge that the darkness is gaining more and more of a foothold in Middle Earth and making advances on the Undying Lands fills her heart with terror - not for herself, but for those she has come to know and care for.
A tiny seed is planted inside her being, the seed of memory of the time she held the Silmaril. The strength to overcome pain and suffering. The strength to live on through the deepest sense of loss. Elwing is no stranger to loss. Loss has been her constant companion through the Ages. Just when she feels has found kin and friends, loss is again appearing in her life. Blessed Iluvatar, how many times must she go through loss. Is this then her curse? Her prize for rescuing the Silmaril? And the Silmaril - where is it? Where is her beloved Earendil? This time she will not lose. Determination spurs her on.
So many questions unanswered, Elwing realizes she is tired and ravenous after her exertions. She hears footsteps approaching through the dimly lit tunnel and as she looks up she sees one of the hunting party return bearing a tray with what looks like food and drink balanced upon it. He places it down beside her as he glances her way. "Thank you, little father," she croaks, shivering and pulling the cloak around her more tightly.
Elwing watches as the dwarf makes his way back to the light and gradually becomes aware of the familiar smell of stew. She reaches for the bowl and spoon, and, feeling the warmth taking away the iciness of her hands, she slowly samples the rich flavours, the warmth of the liquid spreading through her body, from the inside outwards. The bowl is soon empty, and she is feeling a little more alive and hopeful. Reaching for the tankard, she takes a drink, just as the dwarf returns carrying some blankets. This time Elwing manages a grateful smile. Her toes peep out from under the cloak as she reaches for the blankets. The dwarf motions for her to follow. Elwing carefully pushes herself up from the floor, using the wall for leverage and support. She picks up the blankets and stumbles along the tunnel after the dwarf. Just around the next corner is another small opening into a quiet recess at the rear of the main caves. The dwarf motions Elwing to enter and sets about making sure a fire is set and tended before stepping just outside the room.
Elwing takes stock of her surroundings, noting several scattered belongings. It would seem the prior inhabitants of this room had left suddenly for the safety of the deeper caves. She spies a pair of brown boots discarded on the floor and carefully makes her way to retrieve them. Measuring them against her feet she is pleased when she recognizes they will do the required task. She sits on a nearby wooden stool and pulls on the boots, feeling the woolen insides soft against her bitterly cold feet. Standing carefully she grabs the stool and places it in front of the warmth of the cheering flames, then sits and reaches her hands towards them. Gradually feeling the cold drain away, she realizes that if she doesn't get some sleep she will again fall into decline as she had after racing home to Alqualonde the last time. Resolutely she wraps herself in the blankets and stretches out near the fire, falling into a deep exhausted sleep.
> Next