Chapter Twelve: Feeding the Flames
Patches of shadow and sunlight danced across his face comfortlessly in the blue haze of the afternoon. Rúmil's tunic stuck to his back as he plucked it away from his skin idly.
Though Lórien looked as lush as ever, a stifling heat hung on the air, oppressive and breathless. The grass on the borders had wilted, its dry brittle fragrance permeating the lifeless air, and even the mallorn, though beautiful, seemed to fade to a dull grey without rain to nourish them. Even the birds and animals were silenced, husbanding their energy away from the affliction of the sun. Lethargy affected the Galadrim as well who attempted to remain ever-vigilant in the abrasive heat, bearing up against it by scouting out what shade they could. At mid-noon when it grew warmest, the grateful group was relieved.
The young scout Thillas lay sprawled on his back in the great shadow of a massive trunk. "You know they will not move until forced to. Why worry?"
"We don't know that and we can't take chances," Orophin argued, caught in the sunlight. "They are hunted and fearful. The sun will only hold them back for so long."
On the other side of Thillas, Rúmil listened idly and closed his eyes against the afternoon sun that pinpricked through the leaves. In this bright heat, he couldn't care much for the movements of orcs and their human allies.
"Alfirin sent out Linwen and a few to get bearings on them."
Opening his eyes a fraction, Rúmil glanced up at his oldest brother who perched high above him. "Anything?" They were still close to the borders, ergo wariness was a must.
Haldir shook his head. "Nothing. But Silivren's coming. And bearing life-saving refreshments thank heaven." He landed neatly beside his brother.
Rúmil stood up, dusting dried grass from his leggings, and glanced towards the lowered river. "Should—should I get him then?"
Haldir glanced at him uneasily. "If he will come. You know he's still—"
"I know."
Rúmil made his way to the river edge, approaching cautiously as though a hunted animal lay crouched on the bank.
Fedorian sat cross-legged near the lapping waters of the Nimrodel, bent busily over a length of wood in his hands, a curved piece of deep rich brown. Rúmil watched several lighter shavings fall into his lap then slowly knelt next to him.
This close he could see the faded bruises, the skin still faintly tinged around the ears with jaundice-yellow, the lingering traces of battle's sign.
"Silivren's coming. Do you want something to drink?" He hated this. He really did. Talking to his teacher as though he were a child. Geilrín said they had to try to ease him back from wherever he had locked himself but Rúmil knew, or guessed rather, that Fedorian could understand him perfectly and simply chose not to react or acknowledge the presence of others.
For days.
Glancing downwards at the wood between his friend's hands, Rúmil tried to smile when he felt as though his face might crack with effort. "That looks really pretty. What's it for?"
Fedorian didn't even look up, so intent on his task.
Rúmil, giving in, sighed and stood up as the young elf woman started passing out flagons that had been kept cool by being weighted in the Celebrant with silver ropes. "If you need… anything… we'll…" He walked away and accepted the flask Silivren handed him with a grateful smile. Seating himself beside his brother, he lowered his voice so she would not overhear. "I don't understand why he's like this."
"Give him time, Rúmil. He just needs time," Haldir said, sipping from his own flask.
Rúmil remained unconvinced, cradling the cool flagon between his hands. "You weren't like this."
Haldir suddenly found the grass very fixating. "I was not there as long… nor as-as badly damaged." He had not told his brothers about the Gondorian camp and they had not asked. As though it would shatter their peace of mind and would never be able to look at him the same if they did.
"What did she say afflicted him so?" Thillas asked, more from curiosity than any sense of tact. "I mean, I know, he was always rather… taciturn—this seems a little excessive I think."
"It's his head, Thillas, and try to be a bit more respectful," Orophin said, cutting a stern glance at the younger elf. "Don't talk about it when Silivren's here. You know it upsets her."
The elf woman had approached her father last. "Adar, you should eat something." She tugged at his listless arm. "Come on. We brought nice, cool water and a few of those pastry cakes you like so much. Naneth made them." Getting no response, she knelt and took his face in her slender hands while the other soldiers ate mechanically, trying not to stare.
"Please, eat something."
It was painful to see her like this, trying and trying to get through to him. And getting nowhere. She kissed his forehead, blinking in the bright sunshine.
Rúmil sighed in the silence and put his flagon aside.
Raising his head for the first time, Fedorian broke from his daughter's touch, standing rigid and tense, staring away from the river. Silivren and the others got to their feet too, wondering what had so acutely captured his attention.
A rush of hooves, a flash of grey sweat-streaked flanks. A rider galloped by, obviously bound for the city and too hurried to stop and relay his message.
Fedorian followed rider and horse keenly until he vanished between two trunks. Then sat down again and picked up his carving once more.
The air grew hotter.
Even night brought no relief from the scorching heat. No soothing wind stirred the curling branches and the air massed thick and stale under heavy boughs. Haldir trod wearily through it, hoping only for sleep after a long, rigorous day of instructing the lethargic recruits. Motivating them had been quite the challenge and Haldir had found himself almost wishing for a horde of attackers rather than the loud complaints he had had to suffer under the relentless sun.
Shoulder aching faintly, he climbed the silvery ladder let down for him. Emerging through the center of the platform, he pulled himself up and set his pack off to one side. He nodded a brief greeting to Thillas who had come in only moments before he and walked across the lightly swaying bridge to his own bunk.
A series of telain spread out over a vast part of the forest, following a curve southward parallel to the forest borders. Light, sturdy rope bridges enabled the soldiers to move quickly and easily from one flet to another. These were the elven barracks. Lined with two cots per flet, many were already occupied with weary soldiers who had been relieved on the perimeter. Carefully hidden by thick leafy branches, neither far from the city nor the borders, the soldiers were ready at a moment's notice to come to arms.
Rameil who slept in the cot across from him had not returned yet and Haldir doubted he would until close to dawn.
Only the creak of wooden boards, the briefest of stirs in the trees above his head met his ears; the insects must have felt the heat as well for they were quieter than usual.
Perching on his bed, he un-girded his sword and knife and tucked them away under the bed. Removing his boots, he smiled at being able to use both hands again. But it quickly faded to dissatisfaction.
Scouts had been dispatched to keep an eye on the Gondorians' movements the day after the disastrous attempt at peace negotiating. They had found nothing. The remnants of cooking fires, forgotten items and a fallen tent were all that remained. The rangers of the White City had completely vanished. But Haldir knew they had not gone.
Ramir would not give up, he knew that from experience. Simply thinking about the man, about Rúmil suffocating under him, made his hands clench so tightly his fingernails left deep crescent marks in his palms. Letting out a deep breath, Haldir willed himself to relax. He had to get some sleep tonight. Pushing aside all troubling thoughts as the aches in his muscles asserted themselves more strongly, he attended to the night's ablutions.
Cleaned and dressed as lightly as possible without immodesty, he lay uncovered upon his bed, staring up at the still ceiling. No boughs to dance him to sleep tonight. Indeed a hush had settled down over the world around him. Few stirred and none of the soldiers had energy enough to speak.
Haldir looked up through the branches under the warm night, the dark shadows skittering over his face.
"Haldir."
He woke abruptly to a lamp burning brightly in his eyes and shut them instantly with a soft noise of protest. A touch on his hand drew him to open them again towards the dark edge of the bed where Rameil bent over him worriedly.
The dark-haired warrior watched him with concern, obviously having just returned. One boot lay carelessly tossed on the floor. "Are you all right? You were…tossing…" Rameil trailed off, looking decidedly uneasy.
Rubbing a hand over his face, Haldir shook his head, self-conscious. "A dream only I think." He lay there a moment, watching his friend unpack his supplies and ready himself for sleep. He tried to turn over away from the light but his thoughts would not stay idle. After a moment, he rose, tossed a tunic over his shoulders and to Rameil's questioning look only said, "I cannot sleep anymore."
"A walk always helps settle my thoughts," Rameil nodded agreeably, perching on his bed and beginning to unravel his braids with stiff, tired fingers.
Haldir's mind never registered his feet moving until the damp predawn grass touched his bare skin. Darkness grew thicker here than in the lantern-lit city. There greens, golds and silvers shed their luminous decadence across smooth pathways. Here there was nothing but the hidden moon and the nodding grasses far below her.
Shadows and moonlight chased across his hair, Haldir kept going, unsure of where his steps led him but allowing them to take him where they would. Losing all track of time, he had left the telain of the border guards far beyond him when he halted a moment, looking around. Was he lost? All of the trees looked the same in the deceptive moonlight. Perspiration trickled down his temples and he plucked at the collar of his tunic as he tried to get his bearings.
He stopped quite suddenly on the very fringe of a clearing. Long grass stood silent and motionless like rank upon rank of soldiers standing to attention. On either side like ever-vigilant sentinels towering trunks marched away into the darkness. Stark and revealing in their grimness. Water rustled somewhere in the deeper shadows. Unfamiliar to him in the dark.
Growing increasingly edgy, he skirted the vulnerable openness of the clearing, the grasses sweeping his thighs. Dew beaded on his hands and soaked the low cuffs of his leggings. A sharp contrast to the heat dampening his brow. Valar, he could still feel it! Shivering, he plunged swifter into the grasses, their sibilant rustling reminiscent of the hissing of his dreams, images of yellow and red flicking over his vision. The scent of burnt wood filling his nostrils.
He stopped dead.
He breathed deeply again. Only the scent of wet grass and sweet niphredil permeated the night air. No smoke or burning wood. No ash or grey dust or screams. No harsh bloody light that revealed a scorched field and glittering blades. Only smooth quiet darkness.
And yet, he could almost hear the cries… the shouts and clang of steel, the banner of the silver tree burning… He tightened his hand around the hilt of a saber that was not there, his muscles subconsciously tensing. For Elves, memory was sometimes more powerful than waking life. He started from his reverie only as the soft press of near-silent footsteps found his ears, breaking the troubling silence. Dropping low in the brush, he waited, sure some enemy was near...
The footsteps halted near his hiding place. "Haldir?"
He sighed silently in relief, automatically relaxing. Silivren. He grimaced, a little embarrassed, and stood upright. "I went for a walk and… got a little turned around somewhere."
She smiled. "You passed our talan twice." Her head cocked a little to one side as she examined him closely. "You do not sleep?" She had never seen him so troubled before, save long ago. "Dreams of the past perhaps?"
Haldir shook his head, his gaze faraway. "Not tonight." A frown deepened across his face as though the night-shapes recounted his visions again. Distracted, he could still feel the vivid reality of blistering heat on his skin, papery black flakes whirling through the air, a shameful mockery of the beautiful golden leaves they had been. He walked unblinking through the smoke, a heavy weight settled on his chest. Flaming branches crackling overhead, none yet falling.
"Nightmares then."
Haldir kept his silence, his face taut with resistance. He hadn't wanted to talk about this. Searching for peace of mind, he had found more turmoil. "You do not sleep either?"
"Not well." She was always honest with him. He had always been as an elder brother to her just as her parents had been theirs.
"What troubles you?" He longed for a respite from his own thoughts, even if hers offered him no comfort.
Not caring that the dew drenched her nightdress, she sat on the grass with a quiet sigh. "Many things, Haldir. Too many things and I don't know if I want to bother you with the lot of it."
Indulgent, he smiled and took a seat beside her, nudging her playfully with an elbow. "I'll just have to beat it out of you then."
She shoved him back. "You're too big to do that anymore! I'd tell Adar…" Her smile fell away like a mirror shattering. "Or at least I used to."
"How is he?" Haldir's expression sobered abruptly, knowing he was already treading painful ground.
She shook her head, her hands twisting nervously in her lap. "He pushes us away. Still. We've tried everything we can think of. He won't even speak."
"You do not speak to Arenath of this?" he wondered aloud.
She dismissed his suggestion brusquely. "He fears it upsets me and doesn't wish to talk about it." Her golden hair curtained her face as she lowered it, staring at her pale hands. The hands that felt utterly useless to help the one person she loved most in the world. "What if he doesn't get better?"
"He will."
"What if he doesn't?" she insisted, her large green eyes meeting his desperately, needing assurance more than anything.
But he could find none.
"You're all tense," she said to cover his silence. Moving so that his back was to her, her instinctual wish to heal and opportunity for distraction set her to work. Starting near his collarbone and shifting out and downward, she concentrated on her task with thoroughness as she chided him.
"You soldiers!" she half-laughed, half-wept. "You think you have to be brave all the time."
He said, wincing a little as her hands worked slowly at a stubborn knot in his back. "There is a reason."
"What is it? You think you must always be the invincible warrior, to complain of neither hurt nor hardship though it may kill you to do so. Despite what you think, we see it. And yet you never speak of it to us though it might ease your suffering. Why? Because it is too unseemly for women's ears?"
"No. That is not why."
"Then it is too—"
"Painful."
Her hands stilled.
"There is your reason." As had become unconscious habit, he rubbed the fading scar in his shoulder, pressing harder until the first twinges of pain came. "We do not want to bring that world home, when the company of family and friends are the things that drive those shadows away."
A sharper complaint gritted his teeth and Haldir dropped his hand abruptly, concentrating on pulling the folds of his open tunic closed to hide his grimace.
The crickets had gone still and Haldir heard the silence. The forest about them did not only sound quiet. Haldir could not remember when it had ever felt so quiet save before a great rending storm.
Silivren sat silent as well, thinking on his words.
"You are brave."
He closed his eyes, his shoulders slumped as though her words had torn down the last of his walls. "Not always." Turning around, his eyes flickered to hers briefly and darted away into the shadows again. "I am sorry, Silivren."
"Apologies will not change what happened, Haldir."
"No. It won't." He took her chilled hands in his, staring intently up at her. "I will find them, Silivren. And I will kill them for what they have done."
She sighed, stood. "I don't want you to kill anyone, Haldir." Her voice quavered, hair shadowed her face. "I want my father back."
She guided him back towards his own talan, departing at hers. He watched her walk slowly up the spiraling stairs, her shoulders bowed as though weighted heavily, then turned his steps back.
Rameil was already fast asleep, an arm hanging over the edge of the bed, the lantern long since extinguished as Haldir slipped up onto the platform, a silent shadow. He lay on his cool blankets.
Sleep did not return.
Mid-morning sunlight slanted green-shafted through the leafy boughs. Still and warm, the oppressive air held the land locked in its relentless blistering sway. Above in the cool-shaded canopies, a small group of elves numbering half a score sat tense and watchful, blending with the bark of the trees they lay concealed in.
"Orders came, old scout," Alfirin explained in an undertone to Haldir and Rameil. "The villainous vermin of the yonder blue mountains have decided to kick up a bit of mischief so we have to jolly well set in and kick them back."
"Ah."
"Good old mother sun should give them a funny turn," Alfirin looked up into the bright sunlight dappling through the trees. "Shouldn't be too hard to route them."
"What are we waiting for then?" Rameil questioned, twanging his bowstring experimentally.
"For your boss wallah." Alfirin stood complacently, hands crossed over the haft of his longbow which was taller than he. Smartly dressed in dark green and black, mottled cloak thrown about his shoulders, he stood facing the wind, his hair majestically sweeping over his shoulders as he struck a noble pose. "Good day for it, eh?"
Haldir nodded tiredly, casting his eyes to the bright sky and across the green shaded woodlands that stretched on for miles. For away a sharp glint of silver hinted at the Nimrodel under the morning sun. Movement below directed his attention to the ground.
Arenath had appeared under the tree and waved a signal, another half score of elves at his side.
"Good turnout." Alfirin straightened his dress tunic with a flourish, the myriad medals from hundreds of campaigns flashing and jingling merrily. "No sense in looking sloppy, I always say."
"He calls it 'meeting death with a bit of deference, eh?'" Linwen who had dropped from a higher perch smiled at Rameil's baffled look.
Alfirin rose and beckoned his soldiers to him. "All rise, troop!"
A sharp wind rustled the tips of the trees as the elves vanished into the woodland.
Khiris scowled at the orc chieftain, her dark eyes narrowed in deep dislike as she stroked the coarse broad head of the female warg at her side. Silently, she cursed the fates that had brought them to this, skulking in a forest with these foul creatures. And she didn't just mean the orcs.
Thick branches of a close growing copse crisscrossed over their heads, only faint rays of sunlight reached the forest floor here. Where were they all hiding? The orcs hated the elves with a passion and even now stared darkly at the trees, uneasy and grumbling but too afraid to venture further than the outer edges of the grove in search of game birds.
Khiris sneered under her breath. But even she couldn't help the skitter of unease that leapt up her spine.
Her men lay about in the scant sun, relishing in the heat that reminded them of the homes they had left behind. The chieftain's orcs watched them from the shadows, groggy and blinking. They were all famished and tired of running. The orcs especially watched them night and day with hungry, baleful eyes, waiting for the chance to sate their hunger on the dead of their enemies—or allies—whichever came first.
"Don't see why we gotta wait 'round here in these accursed trees. Feel their eyes crawlin' all over the back o' me neck," the orc scraped grimy claws across his scalp, yellow eyes darting around uneasily.
Khiris snorted at his fear. "We wouldn't be here if it weren't for you."
"Not our fault ye botched up the attack," the creature complained, testing the tip of his rusty axe against a mallorn trunk bad-temperedly, slicing a deep cruel scar into the tree's flesh. "We gutted their leader—what more d'yer want?"
"I'll gut you myself if you turn those men on our trail again," she snarled back, withdrawing a long knife from her boot. She had been waiting for this confrontation for a long time.
So had he. The orc sneered at her, pulling his axe free and brandishing it. "Try it, maggot."
Khiris leapt to her feet and kicked him, sending him sprawling into the dust. "Sack of slag! I ought to!" The warg female disappeared from her side with a low rumble and the men around her had gone still, watching the altercation with shifting eyes.
Spitting earth, the orc leapt to his feet, yellow fangs bared in a grimace of a smile as he snatched his pitted axeblade up. "I'll enjoy your sweetmeats, girly. Cutcha up and feed ye to yer pretty pet!"
A white bolt silenced his threats forever. At the same moment, a long howl rose from the throat of the female, cut off by an abrupt silence.
Khiris stared in shock at the dead orc at her feet. Adrenaline suddenly jolted through her, her muscles reacting before her brain caught up to that unmistakable creak. She threw herself to one side, hearing two arrows thud into the turf where she had been standing a moment before. She could not see anything but death as she gingerly raised her head.
Arrows flew thick and fast, cutting down the orcs even as they wheeled, searching in vain for their invisible enemies.
"Who are they? What is it!" Khiris screeched, nabbing one of her own men by the throat. "How many are they? Who the devil are they?" She screamed into his face, shaking him.
The man croaked, trying to speak around the choking clutch of his leader but abruptly broke off with a shocked gurgle. He slid limply out of her grasp into the dust, a white-fletched arrow sticking out of the back of his collar.
The Haradrim and orcish forces were taken completely by surprise as the elves mercilessly cut them down. Bitter hatred of the goblins of the mountains leant speed and surety of death to the targets of elven arrows.
Without their leader, the orcs scattered, fleeing into the woodlands only to be pursued and slain one by one by their invisible attackers.
Khiris managed to hold her men together, but with nowhere else to run. Her eyes narrowed as she flourished her pike fearlessly. She and her countrymen were not afraid to die. They had set out on this mission to escape to their freedom or to die trying and if it ended so… they were ready.
Suddenly, they were surrounded on all sides by arrowheads, Khiris stared, finally meeting the faces of her attackers. The elves had closed surely and solidly around them. There would be no escape from this. Then she saw a familiar face among them and nearly laughed aloud.
"You still killing men, Haldir?"
"You are trespassing here," Haldir told her flatly without breaking rank.
"We leave."
"You allied yourselves with our enemies," he said, casting a contemptuous glance over the lifeless orcs. "Why should we let you go?"
Khiris shot a venomous glare at the dark-haired warrior who had circled behind her. "We not come here to fight elves," she said, spreading her hands. "You let us go, we not come here anymore. You killed the orcs. Good. We not like them. Not by choice we did follow them."
Alfirin turned swiftly to Rameil whose group had just returned from chasing down the last of the fleeing orcs. "Escort them to the borders, old lad."
The dark-haired elf saluted and with remarkable swiftness, had surrounded the Haradrim survivors and began to march them briskly away.
"No!" Khiris cried, fighting against Rameil's soldiers. "The filthy tarks entered these woods to track us!"
"You will not be harmed," Haldir told her calmly. "They will only take you from our land and release you."
"Our people's blood has been spilled! We are owed a blood price!"
He cast his eyes over the lean, hungry group of Haradrim soldiers. "Your people are weary enough of war."
Seeing an end to the protests, Rameil himself took the arm of the dark woman who still fought against him.
"We will burn these later," Arenath said, turning over the carcass of an orc and kicking the axe from its frozen claws to retrieve his arrow. "Are any of ours hurt?"
Geilrín shook her head. "No. Not a scratch."
"Good." Arenath took once more to the trees, following a path through the branches that only the swiftest of elves knew, Haldir right behind him.
Dark clouds enveloped the sun, plunging the forest into ever-darker green shadows. The heaviness of thunder lingered on the air, a cold wind sweeping through the hot air. Here and there even a flicker of lightning could be spotted through the intertwined branches forking down from the pillared clouds. Haldir wrenched his attention from the sky to the path ahead. This had been but a skirmish.
The real reckoning was yet to come.
The smoky fire of the sun fell into the arms of the hazy mountains, a battle-hued red, and still they had not returned. Ramir growled under his breath and paced restlessly across the night-swept grass. What was taking them so blasted long?
Blue twilight bled from the sky, an early sunset arriving with the onset of deep ominous-looking clouds. Another dry, dusty day lost. Another day he couldn't afford to lose. Time pressed. And with every day passing without sign of their quarry, his men's determination and hope wavered.
Soft shapes moved in the formless dusk. A rush of footsteps.
"At last," Ramir strode forward impatiently. "Where the devil have you two been?"
Looking dusty and exhausted, the two scouts stood panting heavily from the long run back to camp and sanctuary, bent over their knees a moment to gain breath enough to report. "There's nothing ahead, sir. We…we went all the way to the edge of the wood—not a sign."
Garen, the crossbowman, snorted under his breath and muttered to Tergon out of the side of his mouth. "This is madness chasing around the woods like dogs without a hart to scent."
"'Madness?'" Ramir had heard him. "Madness?"
The crossbowman acted as spokesperson. "You heard me, Ramir. This is madness, I tell you! We've had not a sign in weeks! The heat's getting worse and our supplies are dwindling."
Anger colored their commander's face but he tamped it down quickly. This was no time to lose his temper. Others were glaring at him too or nodding their heads in agreement. They had had enough of this—the terrible heat and without sight of hide or hair of their enemies had drawn tempers and patience nerve-frayingly taut.
Taking a deep breath, Ramir calmed himself. "My friends," he spread his hands wide. "Why should we fight amongst ourselves? You want to go home. Well, I do too! I would pack up my gear in an instant, hell or high water, if I had a choice. But I don't." He sighed as though aggrieved. Eyeing the insubordinate, he took a step forward. "Garen, why do you think we're out here in the first place?"
The man looked surprised. "Because of the war, of course."
"Exactly, my friend. Exactly." Ramir nodded confidingly. "Our orders were to exterminate the traitors who sold out our defenses to the Easterlings, right? That's why we came out here. On that crucial mission—that dark bitch and her band are the last of them."
"We can't take the chance that they might come back to the City—with more arms, with more men. They would ravage Minas Tirith given half the chance; you all know that. We cannot let that happen. We will not let that happen. No matter the heat, or thirst or death. We have to protect our city and our king. It is our duty."
"What about the elves, sir?" A voice asked.
Ramir glanced at the speaker. "The elves won't stop us either, Peranir! They sided with the darkies! Against us who fought with them when no one else would! And for that, they have to die too! If it comes to it, we'll give them a battle they won't forget. What do you say?"
A cheer greeted his ears, a little less than enthusiastic but at least no more complaints were voiced.
"Douse the fires! Pack up!" Ramir snapped, watching as fires hissed, wraiths of steam wreathed his head. "Wait for the right moment—keep the flint close to hand but don't light it yet." Striding across the slowly darkening camp, he stopped beside a broad soldier with a scar along his neck bent over a row of what looked like fist-sized balls bound with lengths of rope.
"Adarnon, those rags properly oil-soaked like I told you?" He questioned.
"Yes, sir. They're all ready."
"What are you going to do?" Tergon dared ask, fettered by hands and ankles.
Ramir whirled on him and cuffed him roughly across the face. "Never you mind, boy! You'll find out soon enough. Now, you two," He gestured to two soldiers. "Cut his bonds and get him in line."
He smiled nastily as the young soldier got slowly to his feet, rubbing circulation back into his limbs. "I want you in the front rank in case we run into any surprises." He grinned and drew his sword, the last crimson sunlight glinting off the newly sharpened steel.
"It won't be long now."
The quiet stillness was broken only by steel grating harshly. Lantern light splintered into a myriad of fiery colors as he raised the icy blade to his eyes. Good. Sharp. Perfect. Already fit into their new-made hilts, the black-stained wood still gleaming and wet, he set his knives carefully aside, within easy reach.
Staring into the glass, one green eye looked back at him. The other… a sightless blue orb milky-grey in the thin light. A white mark traced the path a blade had taken across his face, already fading and indistinct.
"They will come." Fedorian turned his head and watched early night fall through the window.
