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Old 09-27-2003, 04:50 PM   #70
Imladris
Tears of the Phoenix
 
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Tolkien

Rauthain and Maethor rode in silence, Maethor musing upon the account that Rauthain had told him. He glanced at Rauthain and saw him staring at his horse’s mane as he wandered the paths of memory. “It was no fault of yours he was lost,” he said softly. “None could have known he was yet alive. Do not blame yourself.”

Rauthain said nothing and his head remained bowed. Maethor remained silent for a moment and then said, hesitantly, “Fear, to me, is not spawned, it does not come to the braveless and dauntless such as Kaldir. It is a part of us, woven into our soul, integrated into our nature.” Maethor frowned as he pondered. “Where there is evil, there is fear. I wonder if fear is a form of the revulsion of evil.” It was an intriguing question, Maethor thought.

Maethor could feel the power of his stallion as Rauthain and he trotted along the faint trail Naiore had left behind. He rode bareback, as he loved to feel the rolling muscles and the hidden power of Nair, the power and energy that could instantly be erupted into fierce fury, or released in colt-like playfulness. Maethor did not truly ride in the elven way, however, for Nair wore a soft leather bridle. The braided reigns passed through silver rings, engraved with elven runes, and rested lightly and easily in Maethor’s hand. Maethor wished he could have rode Nair in truly elven fashion, with neither saddle nor bridle, but after he had suffered a few tumbles, courtesy of Nair’s fiery and flighty temper, and the gay laughter of the elves, he had reluctantly conceded to the necessity of a bridle.

Dropping the reigns, Maethor reached into his saddle bag and withdrew his small whetstone that nestled naturally in the soft hollow of his palm. He leaned over and withdrew a simple knife from his leather boots. It was relatively plain, and without adornment save for an etching of the white tree of Gondor upon the blade. Gently he passed the stone across the blade in a small circular motion, cringing at the rasping sound of the knife being sharpened. Peering at the blade, he rolled his dark green sleeve up to his elbow, spat on the exposed arm, and swept the knife smoothly and swiftly barely above the skin: a smile of satisfaction crossed his face as he saw that the finely toned edge had easily shaved the hairs upon his arm. Returning the blade to its hiding place, he did the same to his other knife that was in his other boot and to the dagger that hung at his belt.

“Look, Maethor,” Rauthain said, pointing. “It is Bree.”

Maethor looked at the pleasant village, its cluster of houses, the merry lights that laughed in the enveloping arms of the serene darkness. Silver stars glistened in the light of the moon, crickets sang their songs, fire flies flitted elusively in the night. Maethor’s hand snatched at one of the flickering lights and, carefully uncurling his fingers, a luminous green light was seen crouching upon his palm. He smile and murmured a word or two in elvish as he released the fly and watched it dance away into the shadows of a nearby tree.
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I'm sorry it wasn't a unicorn. It would have been nice to have unicorns.

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