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"I do not know what you mean by magic," the Elf said. In truth, Ledwyn knew not herself. Magic was always a part of every tale about another people. The Numenorians built towers as smooth as polished steel; the Dark Lord’s Fell Riders awoke fear even in the bravest of hearts; the Dwarves made doors that had no lock or key, yet would let in no enemy; the Onodrim were trees that could talk and move; the Druedain walked like any other men during the day, but turned into stone statues under starlight; the Elves weave treacherous nets that captured the minds and hearts of Men. And all is magic.
What if the Elf spoke true? What if he only wanted to help her son, and live like a Man would? No Man could match the depth of his eyes or the flow of his voice. But Ledwyn has also heard of tales told about her own people among both friends and enemies. Strawheads, the accursed orcs called her people: not a lie, but a truth twisted. What if the net-weavers and sorcerers of Dwimordene also were not wicked and horrid, as the Riddermark tales told?
"I can break it and put it in the water, or if you would like I can give it to you for you to do with as you like," the Elf said. Ledwyn felt guilty for doubting him. “I think you know best what to do with them, good Master.” She lowered her eyes. She felt that he knew exactly what she thought, as if she was as clear as the crust that forms on the surface of a pond after the first frost of winter. She wanted to hide from this feeling, to feel secure, to feel at home.
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