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Roy held Indil's left hand, Mithrellas her right, and they watched Mellondu and Erebemlin minister to Nimrodel as the others danced in spirit with the children. The only other who stood stock still was Tharonwë, confused by his thoughts which were buffeted by Roy's willful spirit.
"I know your thought, Imrazor," said Mithrellas, her brow creased. "He does not deserve such a grace."
She spoke over the head of Indil whose blissful face with closed eyes showed what they both also knew, that she was elsewhere in her thought. Jorje lay on his side at her feet, the tip of his tail wagging, his paws moving in sympathy with his dashing, running dream, letting out a whispered woof now and again.
"No, he does not. I read a story in which words similar to yours were spoken, and a wise counsellor answered that of course he doesn't. But who are we to judge? Who knows how he against his own desires may do what he does not intend?"
"That sword cuts with two edges, my love," she answered.
"Don't I know it?" said Roy. "It could be for the worse and my judgement in doubt for its failure; but should it fail, that does not mean I was unwise to attempt it. If he repents, its worth is undoubted."
"And if he does not?"
"I think it worth the risk. There is no other way for him to turn from his ill will."
"Aye, that is so," Mithrellas allowed. "I do not like it, though."
"Your thought and my thought may follow him. And Indil, Gwyllion, and Aeron are there too. So is Jorje."
"You have answered my fears, though my fear is not entirely quelled. Nevertheless, I will follow you in this."
Roy nodded and smiled, and gently squeezed Indil's hand, who squeezed his and Mithrellas' at once. Mithrellas matched his smile with a grave one of her own.
Roy sighed. "Soon, now," he said, and composed himself.
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