Nin

Many Paths to Tread

Rim of the Valley
From here you can look out over a large expanse of verdant valley floor. Some primeval alpine lake has emptied, leaving sheer walls hundreds of feet high. It looks several miles long, and perhaps a mile across at its widest point. On the opposite cliffs you see can pine forests. Far off in the middle of the valley you see a large house with a broad open meadow around the nearer side. The house has many windows facing in all directions, and many chimneys. There are built-up terraces runNing along the river's northern side from the house, and a forest rises behind them. You are at the top of a zigzagging trail that works its way down the cliffs towards the less difficult forested slopes leaNing against them. The trail is quite treacherous for large or heavily laden people or aNinals. If you are mounted, you would think twice about trying to ride down.

Light is the snowfall that descends upon the Rim of the Valley, and those that are emcamped upon it. The flakes catch and bend the golden sunlight of midday. Yet it lends not warmth to the injured and wounded, who lie beneath the covering, pausing now in their long trek, though nearly fulfilled. In the Valley, the snow covered grounds break only for the House, small now in the distance, yet even so far, it seems so near, lending hope to the voyagers.

The grounds about the camp are quiet and unmoving, a welcome change from the events to recent to the travelers. Yet it is not to remain so, for a figure steps from the trees. He seems to appear one moment, from stillness before, a sudden approach, lending no sound to the listeners among those he approaches. A member of the Tirith it is, as shown by his garments, close fitting, and weapon, a longbow. And too his manner is stern, as he looks about the camp for one in charge.

At the very edge of the valley, a cloaked figure paces through the snow, restless, peering down the sharp drop as though awaiting someone. Ailiell's hands are clasped behind her, idle for the moment, though a flicker within her dark eyes suggests rapid, ceaseless thought. Gladness for the homecoming is tempered now with haste, and she watches the bright, distant lights in silence.

The Herunnur nos Ruiganno sits beside a small fire, heating water for herbal preparations to feed the needs of the wounded. The scout's arrival does not go unnoticed by the Silvan elf-maid, and she watches his movements carefully.

As the light snow gently fell through the air, Alothiell sat near the fire, quite anxious to return home. She went through her pack, seeing what sort of herbs she had. Her eyes kept darting to the direction of her home, than back to the fire. When she looked up again, her eyes caught on a dark figure, it was the scout. She watched silently, wondering who exactly this was.

The messenger's steps lead him to the healer Ailiell, for he recognizes her from past injuries of his own. He nods as he approaches her, in wordless greeting, before his words come as a soft murmur amid the quiet of falling snow. "Arnethril, have you a moment?" He gives a distant look to the camp, before his eyes return to the one so woven in thought.

Glasiel continues to watch the messenger, and her interest does not abate when he begins to speak with Ailiell. Indeed, her attention is riveted to the pair's conversation.

Woven in thought, indeed. In most uncharacteristic fashion, Ailiell turns, startled, to the scout -- his approach having gone quite unnoticed. She grasps rapidly after composure, finding it by the time her hem has swung to stillness. She knows this scout, and in whose service he was last to be found. Her words fall rapidly, soft. "Of course. How may I be of aid?"

"Forgive me, Arnethril. I am Celegteil, and I have been sent by the Gweither Martion." Here, the Ethir pauses, as if taking stock of the healer. "He requests a healer. He fears for the Hirvaethor Randinen's forces, who surely suffered through their retreat." With another solemn glance to the wounded, he shakes his head. "He knows how sorely they are needed here. Yet you approach the Valley, while the Hirvaethor's forces still range far from home."

Alothiell was quite startled by this elf's words. She gave a small gasp, but quickly quieted herself, she quickly became silent again and listened to whatever was going to be said.

Glasiel stands at the scout's words, for the ears of the Firstborn are keen... especially when they are trained on the speaker in question. Ailiell finds the Hirilin beside her before there is time to draw breath, and she eagerly (very eagerly) proclaims, "I'll go!"

As Ailiell feared, by the time the Hirvaethor's name has been spoken, Glasiel is on her feet. A troubled, sidelong glance drifts to her friend, before settling steadily on the ethir. With a faint frown and a long hesitation, she asks, "... Did Martion send ... any other word?"

Celegteil eyes too the Nethril that approaches, though his look shares not the meaNing of Ailiell's. "I am sure he would be delighted to have you," he says to her, a smile finally breaking his face, though small. "But no, he sent no further word." This comment is directed to the Arnethril.

Glasiel nods at Celegteil, not noticing (or perhaps willfully not seeing) the Arnethril's concern. "I can have my pack ready in moments... shall I send for a fresh horse?" To the Hirilin, there seems to be no question of her assignment to this task: She's already assigned herself to it.

"No, Glasiel." Ailiell's focus lies somewhere near the scout's feet and she speaks softly; though with the solid note of one steeled for battle. "No. You are only now on the outer edge of hale." Without meeting her friend's eyes (and with the faintly awkward manner of one arguing before a stranger) she adds, more quietly, "... I cannot allow it."

The messenger steps back slightly, eyes flitting between the pair as they speak. Yet as he hears of Glasiel's injuries, his face slips back into impassivity, and his eyes land squarely upon her. "You would do more service to yourself to remain here, Nethril. And to others, if there is any possibility of danger, when you are injured." Then he falls silent, judging the effects of his words on the conversation.

'You cannot allow it?' The laughter which follows this does not sound like the usual silvery notes that Glasiel is known to share... indeed, her laughter is strained and not at all cheerful. She speaks quite softly indeed. "I would like to see you try to stop me, little sister. He needs me, and I am full-well." Her eyes hold within their flashing blue-green depths the steel of her will, threateNing to overflow and spill out on the messenger and his opinions.

'I have never been better,' she asserts, drawing herself up to her full height and lifting her chin in defiance.

As if she quite expected this response, Ailiell dips her dark head in a slow nod, calm attention still locked to the Ethir's boot. "I do not think you do wish that, Glasiel, mel-Nin. There are guards here who would see you home, for your safety. If I asked." Her cool gaze slips up to meet the fire of the other's -- steam nearly visible in the space between. More softly still she adds, "Please. Glasiel, you are not full-well. I -- cannot allow it."

If Glasiel is surprised by Ailiell's answer, only one who knows her /very/ well would see it. Indeed, one might almost think that her smile was sweetly turned upon her lips as she returns the Arnethril's gaze evenly. "Your concern is commendable, Arnethril... and yet I would not have you spend your worry on me, when there are so many others who in /real/ need of attention." Her tone hovers on the brim of condescention, but does not *quite* cross over.

Glasiel's lips may speak cooly, but her heart speaks with the humble and honest plea,
Do not make me wait here alone, Ailiell. I beg you. Please?

The bent of Glasiel's tone hits its mark, the corners of Ailiell's mouth tighteNing in response. The Sinda's face shutters, growing more distant, though pity hangs about her, fragile as the snowfall. "Healers are on their way. Harchdolas knows of our plight -- surely the Master and Heryn will as well, by now." It seems she is wrestling against giving one thought voice, silence falling heavily for a moment.
Tersely, controlled she says finally, "If it were me -- would you allow it?"

The question hits its mark, and the Herunnur pauses, but briefly. Then, after a slow breath, inhaled deeply and exhaled fully, she responds, her eyes trained firmly on the Arnethril's boots, "If it were you, would you not wish to be beside him in his hour of need?"

The faintest of smiles flickers and is extinguished. "Aye. But, if he had been wounded, and was in your position -- would you wish for him to leave safety and rest, in search of you? When there are others less dear who can go, and go now?" Some measure of Ailiell's former haste reasserts itself as she glances up to the ethir who waits patiently by.

ListeNing in silence to the discussion of the healers, Gondramind sits up straight on his horse, an annoyed pained grimace pulling his lips, and clears his throat. "Nethryl..." he says at last. "When the others of your guild arrive you can go. And I shall go with you. You will need a tracker of my skill to find them. And guards to protect you."

'But I am no longer wounded, Ailiell.' Glasiel's tone is openly pleading, now. At least, to one who knows her well. 'You have given me power, as has the Music of all here. Even the mark near my ear is fast becoming but a memory.' Finally, her voice lowers again. "I must know if he li---" Her words are cut short by the offer of the Hirdan, and she turns to face him, pale and conflicted, and unsure of which need to follow.

A swift half-glance is directed toward the Hirdan, displeasure warring with unease before Ailiell looks back to the pleading of Glasiel. Gently, she reaches out to touch her friend's face; soft voice unyielding as she builds on the unfinished thought. "We do not know what we will find. Please. Please, Glasiel. Let me go, in your stead. I will ride more swiftly, I am uNinjured."

"Ailiell is right," the Hirdan's voice intones, and though the wounds to his chest curtail breath he can yet speak with the resonance of authority. "Only one healer is needed. Perhaps a nethordur to assist." He looks to the Hirilin and his glance is both penetrating and compasionate. But there is within it a light that would brook no argument. "Glasiel. Mellon. You will be needed here... where you can be tended to. And where you can tend. Look at them...." His gray gaze travels over the gathering of wounded, elven and naugrim alike. "They need you. And Randinen would want to know you are safe. Whatever has befallen them, this above all will strengthen the Hirveathor."

Glasiel's determination falters, and instead of answering Gondramind, she hesitates, grey eyes searching into the Arnethril's for answers.
Glasiel's confusion peaks, and to you she turns, almost as a child in her indecision.
/Which shall I do, melleth-Nin? My heart pulls me two ways; I cannot choose./

"I have no desire to keep you from your heart," Ailiell says, just over her breath, and each syllable is tight with pain. Dark eyes delve into the other's, as if she may read her heart -- but she is not Elrond, she has not the skill, and is forced to lean on her love of this elleth. "I know. I know I would fight you, were it me. But --" She almost smiles. "Randinen will never forgive me if I allow you to make this ride. For one. And for another --" She lowers her voice further."Gondramind is in no condition to take the road away from home, mellon. Please -- will you look after him? I think he will listen to you."

Slowly the Hirilin's eyes close, and her head bows in defeat. "I know you are right, Fea-anna-Nin... yet the waiting will test my power to its limit, I foresee. I will do as you ask." Without another word, she turns and walks away from the camp, before her more private emotions have time to show themselves to the wounded.

Glasiel->Gondramind: And as the resigned elleth walks away for a private moment of grief, she adds from deep within your fea,
/You must help me bear this burden, mellon-Nin. Please?/

Gondramind listens and his face grows hard as flint. He sits up tall upon the back of his horse as Ailiell speaks and whatever pain he feels at this movement is undecernable. "And who will stop me Ailiell? I can ride. I have ridden. And I shall go." His gaze does not waver from Ailiell as the Hirilin speaks though it softens at her words. When Glasiel turns to go, the Artellenistron cants his head to the side as thought listeNing to a voice or a fragment of song. He turns in the saddle to watch her leave, a pointed, deliberate movement and the only indication of pain is the small twitch of a muscle on his cheek, barely visible. Could be from the wind. He looks to Ailiell again, gaze still and level, deeply calm. "There," he says nodding toward the departing Glasiel, "is one nethril that wants me to go. I can ride. Bind my chest tightly enough and I can ride, and mend on the back of a horse."

Ailiell looks rather sick as she turns, lips parted, watching the Hirilin's retreat into the kind cover of snowfall. This is no victory; and though she is almost unsteady with relief for Glasiel's decision, the respite is hollow. Grief tightens her brow, unfettered, until the elleth has passed from view. Only then does she school herself into a dispassion to rival the Hirdan's, lifting her eyes to him.

"I will stop you," she says, softly. Though gentle, there is an ironbound promise in her words. "You will /not/ go. That you are able to ride does not mean you ought. You know this. Please, Gondramind..."

"Who has asked you such for such a foolish thing, Hirdan?" Idhrendae steps from the tent, voice crackling with energy at the mere mention of the Hirdan journeying, in his state of injury. "You encourage the Hirilin to stay safe in the camp, yet would ride yourself? My friend, you are in worse shape than she." He turns a pleading eye upon Gondramind, begging him to stay within the safety of the camp. "The Hirvaethor knows his work, and though you may be Artellinestron, how well could you serve, when your every movement pains you?"

"Well enough bathron, and better than any else here, hale or ill!" The fire in Gondramind's voice is hid as a flame under bushel basket. Felt and present, but not entirely heard. "He knows his work, aye. But I saw him wounded and... " He looks to Idhrendae and his face is fixed, as much in purpose as in a hard mask of concealment. "What would you do? Would you let Glasiel go, in her state?"

***A swift thought grows within Gondramind's mind, uncertain as if breeze blown, timbreless but present. /I/ am begging you stay.***

There is a flame's flicker within Ailiell's upturned gaze, the Hirdan's earnest, unyielding expression weighed. "I cannot believe that that was her intention, Gondramind. And I know that you will watchguard her, keep her safe from folly. That is what I know." She draws a breath, pale and steady. "I may bind you. I may give you any number of herbs to ease your pain. But I will not do these things. You are in no condition, and will only hinder the needed speed. Listen to Idhrendae, if you will not heed me, my friend."

A rustling of feet among the natural ground is all that alerts all to the presence of Gwamdir, who suddenly appears and pulls back the hood of his cloak. In his hand, the sheath of a sword, the blade wrapped in a protective gauze. He has a gash upon his face which extends from his right eye down to his chin. It appears to be cleaned, but not at all too healthy. The right eye itself it shut, probably not very well in good health itself, and his expression is not that of the cheery songful spirit he is known for. Spotting Idhrendae, he approaches and grunts thusly: "What passes here?"

"I would have neither of you go, to risk only more pain when you are in no state for it." Idhrendae's voice drops now, some of its energy draiNing into the cold air, yet losing none of its purpose. "Better than any else? When you only move freely bound and tied within your wrappings?" The Herunnur looks upon Gondramind again, eyes narrowing. "Perhaps he was wounded. Yet our troops are with him as well. He will be fine. Without your help."

Gondramind looks at Ailiell with a strangely unfocused glance. "Beg?" he mutters. And then that odd focus of his eye slips to the withers of the chestnut stallion he rides, where it remains as he listens to the Arnethril and Idhrendae, barely the flick of a glance offered to Gwamdir. "Tracking is in the eye, in the sense. I can do that from a horse, I can do it from my feet. Deny me the bindings then, and the herbs. But I will go. By hook or by crook I will go, I will follow... For they are in need or they would be here by now. Hemmed in, perhaps, or too wounded to travel. Why else would Martion send for you?" Words... just words trippling from his lips and as he speaks the stallion, responding to subtle unseen cues from his legs, begins to back away from the group.

"This is... " the Hirdan looks at Silothiel as she speaks, as though her words were Eothrik, and then to Ailiell... "This is, all of this, is the direct result of..." He does not finish. Backing his stallion slowly... aware of the tents and the wounded and the stacks of quartz that were taken from the horses. "So I had better go with you, you see. Reason speaks to it."

The Arnethril matches his slow retreat, shadowy stare never leaving his face. The faintest fingerprint of fear darkens her expression, as she reaches gently up for his horse's bridle. "He sent for me not knowing what will be found," she says, voice slow and rhythmic. "If you were to come with me, I could not give Randinen's people the full attention they may require... By hook or by crook I will deny you, Gondramind. My friend. My friend, your battle is finished. Home is at your feet..."

Silothiel is almost desperate now. "Gondramind, please, listen to her!" she cries. "We are almost home. We don't need anything else bad to happen. Trust Ailiell, she knows what she's doing. You need to stay here and rest. You are in no condition to go from the camp, especially on a horse! You musn't leave." She stops quickly, as she realizes she is rambling on, but still her eyes plead for him to stay.

"He sent for healers, Gondramind. And you are not a healer." Idhrendae shakes his head slightly, as the slow, backward steps of the Hirdan come to his attention. And the Herunnur too begins to walk, mirroring Gondramind's footfalls. "If you go, that will add another to the healer's care. An added burden you would be." His nods as the Arnethril's words weave softly within his, a harmony of reason and care. "You have fought well and valiantly. Now is the time for your resting, my friend. In mind and in body."

***The soft voice grows more persistent, a stream of pleading laid bare as Ailiell seeks Gondramind's eyes. There are fires in the hearths below, and rest for the weary. There is healing to be had, and peace for the heartsick. Go home. Go home, and be made whole.***

Gwamdir continues his approach and takes a stand near Gondramind. "Hirdan, " he says in a rough, course voice, "I trust all is well." And, uncharacteristically, continues forward. The arm not holding the sword doesn't appear to swing as an arm should, and he stops. Light now falls heavy upon his scar as he turns back to Gondramind. "Is there anything that can be done presently?"

Duinlas is disturbed by all the pleading and cojoling going on. He opens his eyes and casts a painful look toward Gondramind, "What is going on, my Nos Brother? Why are you mounted? Are we leaving to the house now?" He speaks clearer now than he has in the past few days, showing good signs that his strength is returNing.

The face begins to crack, but just a crack, as Ailiell speaks. A wrinkle forms on Gondramind's brow. Voices slide past him as the stallion backs... 'Release the bridle, Ailiell' he mutters, 'Your hand cannot stop him if I urge him to run...'

He leans down toward her as best he can, a long strained exhalation of breath pulled from the stonecutters lungs at the strain of this. "What home?" he whispers to her. "I cannot.... what home? I left once before.... Profound stupidity dogs my fate. And others suffer. What home?" He cannot straighten himself. He cannot, though he tries. 'How will the healer get to them, Idhrendae, hmm? With out guard and guide.' He passes his grey gaze over those that are looking at him and the stallion backs further. 'Duinlas, home is at your feet. There is healing to be had and peace for the... sick. You will be home soon.'

Duinlas furrows his brow, wincing at the motion, and his brow relaxes immediately. Fortunately the cut doesn't bleed. Now Duinlas seems to understand a bit more, and he sets his teeth in a grit before attempting to speak again. But he sees his friend and guide backing away, and all the focus is on him, so his words go out stronger and louder, the same voice with which he speaks at all times healthy... a simple question posed, "No matter how near the end, you have not seen us through! Have you no vow to bring us to the house itself?"

'You will not harm me, Gondramind,' Ailiell answers softly, following, slowly winding the bridle about her hand. 'You will not bid him run.'

Her free fingers reach up to touch him, trapped there by his broken frame. 'My guide is here. Celegteil will lead me. We do not go far ...' The shadow darkens over her brow at the words he speaks to Duinlas, breath coming more quickly. "You are with those who love you. That is your home ... Do not be foolish now, Gondramind. Do not risk more suffering by this action. Do you understand me?"

Idhrendae backs away slowly, eyes stuck upon the pair. He wishes not to disturb nor interrupt, instead slipping backwards. Perhaps he is intent upon finding the Hirilin Glasiel, or to be along with his thoughts, but it is clear that he trusts Ailiell, as he walks away.

"Let go," he murmurs to Ailiell, still bent over the stallion's withers, still unable to rise as much as he wants to, betrayed at last by his own body. He says nothing more. He cannot. He cannot move or draw breath to speak. Duinlas speaks of vows and oaths. "So it comes to that," he says still speaking to Ailiell, because he cannot move, cannot lift himself to speak to anyone else. His colorless eyes are trained upon her and shiNing. "Stay and break an oath. Leave and break an oath. Stay and harm has happened. Leave and... I can help you, Ailiell. You know this. I can get you there sooner, quicker than the scouts alone. This is..." he looks away at last and leans fully now against the neck of the horse, face stone hard and fixed. "I will fullfill my vow," he mutters. But which vow he does not state, whether that spoken by Duinlas, or some other, more ancient oath.

The leather bites into the Arnethril's palm, knuckles pale as her slowly wearying, set features. She will not let go, and finds herself caught between haste and hesitance. The free fingers stretch to their extent, reaching to touch the worrying stone. "I know that you could help me ... I know you could, were you whole."

Pain shines in her dark eyes, as if she has borrowed his own while the gaze lasts. And when he turns away, more gently, melodic, lulling she continues, "Stay. Stay and finish this. Lead them home. Keep /that/ oath, Gondramind ... " A measured, intent glance darts to the Ethir who awaits her.

Silothiel has been silent for a while, but now she speaks up, moving next to Ailiell so she is closer to Gondramind, so maybe her message can get through. "Do not forget, mellon, that we need thee here too."

A weary smile pulls the corner of Gondraminds mouth. Winter wind blows the stallion's mane into his face and the stonecutter's breath comes in strained, tight pulls from the lung. "What is to lead mellyn," he says, looking from Silothiel to Ailiell. "There is the path," he indicates it with a nod to his head. "Go home."

The Hirdan casts a look then from Celegteil to Ailiell and back again. "You guard her with your life, mellon." He tries again to straighten and manages with effort to prop up, hands on the stallion's neck for support. And from this position he gazes assessingly at the Ethir. "They traveled southeast. There should be clear sign for much of their retreat. And then it will grow dim... and try to disappear, as they so tried. Look to the foothills. And Martion will be looking for you as well. Keep to day travel..."

Gondramind looks again to Ailiell. "I will lead them then, to that path. Right there. Aye. And you... You be careful. By the Valar. Now. If someone can help me off this blasted horse. And Silothiel, you may want to attend to Gwamdir, he seems troubled... or heartsick." And with this final word he flicks his gaze to Ailiell again, the returns it to the ground.

Silothiel's gaze does not move from Gondramind. "Gwamdir is not the only one that needs tending," she says quietly.

It is only in increments that Ailiell releases the stallion, her eyes faintly narrowed, though perhaps merely against the wind. "Dihenatir -- Nirnaeth," she calls to a pair of trusty artisans who linger nearby, watching the proceedings with puzzlement and unease. "Come, help him down?"

The healer reaches for her thoughts, ordering them with an effort as she considers the Hirdan. "Silothiel," she says gently. "Will you see him safely home, and into the Heryn's care? I will trust you with this, Nethordur."

Silothiel sighs with relief, and smiles. "Of course, Ailiell. I won't let him out of my sight." Now that tension is lessened somewhat (or so she hopes), she says this with a sidelong smile to Gondramind.

Dihenatir and Nirnaeth approach Gondramind together on one side of the horse and the Hirdan looks at them with a wry lilt to his grin before simply.... letting go. He slides of the stallion and they catch him under the arms and at the back and help him ease his cross leg to the ground. Gondramind leans heavily on them and they lead him to Silothiel and Ailiell. "So. You have given me a keeper, Ailiell?" He eyes Silothiel with a sharp, oddly mirthful glance. "Can you keep me you think, nethordur? It will be a long and dangerous journey you know. To that path... There. Keep me well."

"Three keepers, if not more," Ailiell answers levelly, growing ever more wary of this fey mood. "Nirnaeth, Dihenatir -- please steady him until he is safe within Master Harchdolas's halls." She seeks to hold his gaze, as though she might read an answer there. "Gondramind, your words I will keep. And ask for your word, my friend. Give me your word that you will go with them?"

A dark brow rises sharply and Gondramind quirks a wry grin. "Three keepers Ailiell? An awardan a habaron and a nethordur. Well guarded aye. And for so short a trip." Gondramind's smile fades as he meets and holds Ailiell's steady glance with his own. But the doors to his mind which she might read or glimpse through his eyes are firmly shut. "Oh, I give you my word Ailiell. I will /go/ with them. Aye. That I will."

Silothiel eyes Gondramind warily, trying to fathom what he might be planNing to do once Ailiell leaves or otherwise.

A dark knot of dread snaps taut within Ailiell's breast, as she meets his impenetrable, mirthless gaze. Still the snow falls, the lamps burn on in the valley below; time seems oddly paused, though the Arnethril is well aware of the presence of Celegteil waiting, silent, haste in his very stillness. She shakes her head, in a faint, warNing motion. "Give me your word that you will stay with them."

His expression may be shuttered, his eyes as revealing of expression as cold stones... but behind them, Gondramind feels something... almost sag inside his mind. Give way, not so much collapse under pressure as simply... bend, slowly. He says nothing for some seconds, his mouth a thin line, jaw tight. "To the fulfilment of my vow, I shall. Yes."

"I am sorry," Ailiell whispers, a V of worry imprinted over her brow. "I am sorry to leave you, Gondramind. Please ... go with them. Just go with them. Let the Lady tend you. I will trust your word ..." Another moment she studies him, lips parted as if there are myriad pleas stopped just at the tip of her tongue. Her glance slides away.

"When Glasiel returns, please tell her -- tell her I am sorry." Ailiell turns, steps quickeNing as she breaks free of him, to hurriedly collect what supplies she needs.

"I said I would go with them and I shall...." Gondramind's voice trails off and he simply watches her go, leaNing his full weight onto the arms of the awardan and habaron that support him. Finally he exhales - long, slow and painful. "Help me lie down," he mutters to the artisans and they lead him to the nearest support... the stacks of quartz, and lower him to the ground and help him rest against the packs of stone.

Silothiel follows, still gazing upon him warily and he smiles up toward her. "Nethordur, do your work," Gondramind says, but whether he referrs to her gifts of healing, or her task as his keeper is unclear. She assumes healing and goes to prepare tea.

Gondramind simply waits then in the cold snow. He leans his head back and rests it on the packs and gazes at the warmth and lights of the valley below.

Shaken, the healer readies herself in silence, with a haste bespeaking her uncertainty in leaving. Only when all has been drawn together does Ailiell look toward home, pausing a moment, with longing written in every breath.

Her jaw tightens. She stirs, turns aside, veiled glance flickering over the Hirdan with a silent plea and promise. Then following on Celegteil's heels, swings lightly atop her mare and is swiftly lost to the darkness and swirling snow.

*** The passing breath is almost a prayer, a rush of breath soft and strong as the Stirring. Go home. Do not follow. I will bring them safely to you, you have my word. My trust, my hope ... Go home.***