Fingil watched her in the firelight. She had calmed and was resting, lying - eyes closed - with her cloak about her. He felt deeply for her plight, and longed to help her. But if he did die, then she would feel it was her fault, no matter what he said now.
Tintallė rose and Fingil was brought from his reverie. The elf stood and walked across the space between them. He touched the healer's arm and he turned.
"Where are you going?" Fingil asked.
"To Lothlorien," came the reply, "to attain help for your departure from Moria."
Fingil nodded. "A clever move. The brothers are wise beyond all of us."
He embraced Tintallė and wished him good luck before returning to where he had been sat. He lay down, head on his rolled up cloak and looked up at the works of Varda.
A peel of cries rent the air and echoed about and Fingil was startled. He wondered what they had been, certainly not those of orcs. More like to that of birds. He wondered what had become of Elrohir and Angore. It had been several hours now and they should have been back.
He dozed as the light of the stars shone down upon the group. Torfithien lay asleep nearby, Elladan stood, gazing out into the night around them and Tintallė readied his horse for his journey.
[ May 30, 2003: Message edited by: the real findorfin ]
|