VI. (Ambarto)
For the mother of one son and a grandmother of seven, Miriel Therinde knew precious little about how to handle children. She was wise, and she was shrewd, but there were certain things that could only be learned by experience, by touching with your body to tune your senses and awaken instincts. It was only for the living. Back when she was counted among those, she could barely stand to look at the noisy thing in the cradle – ever the hopeless optimist, Finwe had handled everything, telling himself that she would recover if left in peace, though his heart must have known better.
There might have been a memory of little hands obscuring the shadows of willow branches and insistent little voices, but that was long ago. That child was long gone, and not here before her – there was no child at all, but the lost soul of a grim young man, a thinking, feeling creature of infinitely more complexity.
He was recently stripped of his flesh, but a memory still lingered, a ghost of slender limbs that could have been similar to her own if the man had not worked his way to a lean, athletic build. The agile quickness of his limbs must have been a point of pride for the impression of them to still linger so definitely. The dark auburn hair and uncounted freckles must have been points of distinction that he now recalled more than the edges and curves of his face.
He was a stranger as much as he was her reflection, so she stuck close behind her husband as he carefully approached the new arrived spirit, addressing the man with a practiced, soothing tone:
"...what happened? You know you can tell me."
But the younger spirit remained solemn.
"You would not believe me, even if I did."