[Anguirel]

Malris paled as the voices mocked, starting to shudder, feeling uneasy on his feet. Cirlach slumped in his fist, formerly clenched so tight, now loosened by the lashings of guilt. So what his fea had felt had been, at its base, correct. The reproach he felt directed at him had not been incidental. It had been everything to do with this battle. But even so, some things seemed unfathomable. That his wife had not reached Mandos and the bliss of Aman, had been tied to this stagnant place of war, was bad enough. That his wife knew of his moment of weakness was a sore dishonour. That Orcish spirits should play as her messengers...should "care for her as sons..." was unimaginable.

Malris thought back to the scene at Mithlond, where so many of the party had begged that he abandon all thought of visiting Himring. He remembered his inescapable feeling of a story left unfinished, a blank page where a conclusion ought to have been, that made him press on. Valinor had seemed too neat, too easy and ending. And it seemed poor Giledhel had thought the same. Perhaps because she had not taken in her plight or the choice before her; perhaps because she feared the Valar; perhaps because she thought he would return for her. Perhaps for all these reasons.

What he longed for most now was to see Giledhel, to speak to her alone, to reassure and comfort her. But he found himself in the company of these ghastly interlopers...and of Tasareni. He stopped listening to the taunts around him, staring about the quarters that had once been the nest of his happiness. Malris gazed at the marriage bed further back, the drapery gone, the structure of the mahogany unchanged, a thin layer of dust coating it. He turned to the loom that faced him, the ruined loom and the creatures around it...his keen sight had already read what could still be seen of the words it bore, Malris, forgive...; what failing could he forgive in her? It was he who had wronged his wife now.

And then he saw the dark hair that had stirred him to passion in years long past; like black cream, he remembered thinking...the face looked drawn and haggard now, but the eyes were still beautiful...though not as soft as he remembered them, for they were fixed on Tasareni.

"Giledhel," Malris murmured. "You have waited for me for a long time. Longer than either of us could have guessed on the day of the retreat. Why must jealousy mar this?" He was speaking to an image in a loom, that flickered from his sight when he moved to a different angle, but he cared not. It was his wife. He wanted to drive his sword through the insubstantial hearts of the beasts who thought they were speaking for her. He wanted to embrace her even there was nothing to embrace.

"Tasareni is a faithful friend and a brave warrior. Think nothing else of her. Now, please, let your...companions...go, and allow Tasa to go back and join the rest of us. I brought five others, Giledhel."

"Five others? For the feast?" she replied innocently, her eyes growing wide with astonishment.

"Yes, my love. We will...feast here, and then we're going to go home," said Malris, desperate, kneeling.

"Home? But we are home..." came her poignant, quiet, bemused voice.

"No," Malris said, crawling up to the torn, befouled tapestry. "We're going to go to Aman. You'll see your parents again...your father..." Both of their cheeks were bright with tears now.

"What about her? She going too?" came the harsh, mocking chorus, and Tasa's voice rose in a scream as she was seized by the arms.

"Don't bring her," Giledhel muttered with quiet distaste. "I didn't want her at the party anyway..."

But Malris had turned and drawn his sword, futile though his martial skill was proving.

"Take your...hands...off her, yrch..."

"They were rude at first," Giledhel admitted. "But now they're good to me, as children should be good to their mother..."

The forms of the creatures came into sight again, and Malris recognised a darker line across the largest Coavalta's finger. The object itself must have been long lost; but Malris recognised the image of a ring he knew well; forged by his mother for her son's wedding day...

"They are not your children, nor your servants, nor your friends," he cried. "They are parasites. They slew you...and they will slay us too if they can..."

Ducking, Malris grabbed Tasareni's sword in his right hand and rushed towards her, forcing the hilt through the icy mockery of the Orc that held her fast, into her writhing palm. Giledhel's face faded from the loom, a low moan echoing about the chamber.