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Thorn
Thorn knew how it would go. He knew that Uldor's and Ulfast's men were searching for him. He knew that he would be found and brought unceremoniously before the Ulfing lords, and he knew that he would be scorned and named traitor to his folk. It mattered not in the least to him. He did not look forward to the pain that would be inflicted upon him; he was, after all, quite human. But the Song led him, and it led him true. He would not waver, would not stray. He had learned at least that much: to waver or stray from the sooth of the Song never helped, only hindered, and to his own loss. He would walk straight to the doom awaiting him.
Such thoughts occupied him only briefly. Of greater moment was his inkling of a great winged bird or beast that appeared only as a bat. He knew that the Bauglir had many kinds of servants, and that there were fëar that chose to wear the shapes of beasts and birds of prey. Such a one had been she would had murdered Lord Khandr. Would it be so surprising that she had changed her shape and now sought more prey? He considered that he was walking toward Lord Lachrandir of the Fëanorians, and that the bat, if bat it was, flew straight toward him. Perhaps the Elf might be dead before he had a chance to deliver his message; perhaps not. Time would tell; the Song was silent on the point.
His thought was interrupted.
“Holla! You, old man!”
A horse and rider began to canter up from behind, bearing down on him.
Thorn stopped. He turned without fear and faced the rider, still in full charge.
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