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Feud	By : narcolinde Category: -Multi-Age > General Views: 27132 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 110
- 111
- 112
Note
Back into this gloomy tale. Elrond and Company finally arrive in Mirkwood, expecting to be the centre of attention and prepared for a humiliating experience, only to discover a more terrible tragedy has befallen the folk of the Greenwood and Thranduil in particular. Erestor's Lorien lovers make their peace with the seneschal and Dambethnîn receives a long cherished wish by proxy. And Legolas? trouble, of course.

Nedhan Dor Nîr ar Naeg (Into the Land of Tears and Pain)

The air was raw, an aching, bone-gnawing cold, wet and penetrating, heavy with the threat of bitter snow. Looming low the sky bore down, a seemingly solid mass of grey, transmuting what meagre winter sunlight Anor shed into a bland lack of darkness, as if night had withdrawn rather than dawn arriving, revealing a straw-coloured world in shades of ochre and dusk.

Bent and broken by the weight of the season's first snows, the remnants of summer's grasses and grains cushioned the saturated ground for feet weary and sore from the long trek across the stony, ice-clad mountains, yet the horses did not seem less strained. The stark flatness of the level fields made travel painless and security certain, for nothing could remain hidden from elven eyes in such a landscape, yet the sense of safety was acute in its absence. In its place a suffocating blanket of stagnant doom had settled, as omnipresent as the glowering clouds, and its influence rendered the broad valley tense and chary of visitors.

Collected in morosely unified discomfort, the host from Rivendell paused where the East Road faltered, cut by the deceptively quiet flow of the south running stream. It would be difficult to determine whether they had brought the unwholesome gloom with them or merely wandered into the unsettling miasma by virtue of the journey's path.

And now here we are, the esteemed Lords of Imladris and their elite warriors, halted upon the western shore of Anduin to wait upon the whim of Thranduil, last of Beleriand's Sindarin Kings.

Elrohir stared in mute appraisal at the smear of shadowy darkness that bounded the river's territory, the abrupt wall of trees presenting an impenetrable barrier. His thoughts were sour, for often had he set his mind to travel here yet never imagined this scenario.

Why did I never come before now? I came of age to make my own decisions more than half an Age ago; have I been so cowed by the consequences of disregarding my father's wish? It must be so. Mayhap, had I obeyed my heart instead, this unfortunate fate could have been averted.

It was a soul-trying observation and one he could never prove, and as it had the feel of self-serving pity about it Elrohir was inclined to reject it. Pointless hand-wringing and wailing. I do not control anyone but myself; my choices are now history, as are Adar's, and so we have come to this place.

His motives were honourable, his father's base but it did not seem to matter. Combined, the actions and omissions arising from their separate intent had crafted the present. Elrond's haphazard disregard of his own ban against visiting the woodland realm was more than disturbing. It revealed an arrogance Elrohir had never resented before; Elrond considered his whims superseded any harm the repercussions realising them might generate.

What mockery he has made of my steadfast love and loyalty. Aye, that is what this petulant indulgence truly reveals: my wounded feelings and damaged pride. It hurts that Adar thought more of this shadow family than his legitimate one.

Yet Elrohir had to conclude that it was a kind of caring he did not envy, for Elrond's fascination with Ningloriel's world was but a tortuous, black obssession, a tearing and grinding need, a means to purge the dark detritus of poisonous grief infecting his soul. It had to be so; no other conclusion could be derived nor would he entertain alternatives. His history, his family's, the long Ages through which the nobility of Eärendil's lineage had prevailed, that history could not be the lie, could not be the charade, the cautiously constructed cover built to camouflage a flawed and failing House.

Elrohir did not share these putrid notions with Elladan, feeling his brother had enough misgivings to manage without absorbing his twin's regrets. The elder sibling had long ago made it plain he was weary of speculation concerning blood kin dwelling within Mirkwood's eternal twilight. The weighty compunction born of this persistent denial bled from Elladan's soul into his brother's awareness.

No shield is required, muindor, nor is the concept tenable; your hurts are mirrored in me. I say it is right to indulge these morose insights; better to do so now and dispel them ere we stand before whatever judgement awaits. Elladan's mental response made his brother smile the same wry grin he was wearing. There was no mirth in it, however, and the expression quickly faded, replaced by tenacious fortitude as Elladan affirmed his brother's beliefs.

We are the reality: you and I, Arwen, Aragorn. As long as we breathe our House shall not fall. Cracks, rot, broken beams, shifting foundations, such decay is to be expected from exposure to so marred an environment as we inhabit. All this can be repaired, Elrohir; it is only feigned ignorance which causes a structure to collapse. The damage was hidden but we see it now; our diligent effort will effect restoration.

It was not a false declaration and both welcomed the task of ushering this rejuvenation into being, yet it was underscored with the discomforting truth that their House was the last sprung from the noble Noldorin blood of Finwë still extant in Middle-earth, and in this fate they were no different than the woodland King and his purported link to Elwë; all of them lesser representatives of greatness that had dimmed ere the Second Age dawned.

Eyes narrowed to concentrate his sight, Elrohir put the unpleasant comparison out of his thoughts and attempted to pierce the forest's gloom, hoping to discern some detail that would reveal its nature. Such was impossible from so great a distance and he was left with only the impression of absolute stillness, a lack of motion and sound that was a diametric counterpoint to the character of the subdued and wintery valley. This soft open ground swathed in pale light and filled with the voice of the water's sleepy current rolled right up to that dim overcast zone of silent brown sentinels and there it simply ceased to be. Who, then, was master in this valley? Mayhap Anduin and his drowning flux kept the trees at bay, preventing full invasion of the lush bottom lands. Or was Greenwood yet advancing, inexorably annexing the open meadow within her soaring ranks of wooden warriors?

It was telling that in such a fertile strath, unclaimed by any realm of Elves or Men, no farmsteads arose along the banks of the stream. No villages were settled, no towns established. Only the Beornings had holdings in the vale, yet their dominion was limited to a small region bounded by the Carrock in the north and the Forest Road to the south. What habitations Men secured in this place were not revealed under the open sky but hidden beneath the protective boughs of the forest's eaves. The mortals seemed to understand this was no quiet, gentle land of high summer grasses and singing larks, but a battle plain. They had chosen which camp would own their allegiance, and that was telling,too.

"Daunting, is it not?" the gravely voice broke the solitude and in unison Elladan and Elrohir turned questioning eyes upon the speaker. This was one of the Beornings, the Toll-master of the Ford, but his name he would not give. It was so for all the shape-shifter folk for they deemed themselves too removed from other people to share such details. The Toll-master continued, answering the silent query with a gesture toward the wooded horizon. "Yon land of wild elves, a mite disheartening to genteel folk from Rivendel."

"True enough. Seldom do we venture here." Elladan saw no point in disputing the obvious and let his brother's derisive snort express what they thought of being labelled 'genteel'.

"Yet the woodland King has had many visitors of late, both from over the mountains and from the south," the shape-shifter elaborated, his sight resting briefly upon Elrond, who was dressed in much grander style than when last he had crossed the ford, hastening to leave Rhovanian. "Is aught amiss that the High Elves seek the council of the Soul-catcher?" the toll-taker asked, using the name for Thranduil Beorn had granted him of old.

It was enough to make the Noldorin warriors startle and shift in discomfort, but Elladan laughed. "Soul-catcher?" he shook his head in amused disbelief. "The Elves of Imladris seek no such audience. It is Thranduil who requests our attendance; we would not refuse such an invitation from our kin beneath the trees." His jocular tone put the troops at ease and silenced the curiosity of the Beorning, though he was certain the shape-shifter knew there was more to the visit than this. "Be assured, if there is any danger threatening the valley-dwellers, we will share it with your Lord."

Now it was the Toll-master who scoffed, for the ways of the shape-shifters were not as the ways of Elves and even less like unto the ways of Men. Beorn was more than a Lord yet never their Master. He knew he could not explain this in terms these strange people could properly interpret, however, and said no more.

The assembly resumed wordless examination of the distant woods, all eyes drawn to it by unseen lines of keenly distinct tension, anticipation mounting, senses heightened, muscles readying for action as in the interminable interval of false and rigid passivity preceding battle. Minutes passed unheeded into hours. Unseen, the sun climbed towards her zenith. The horses refused to graze; not even hunger prevailed over this concentrated study of the forbidding trees. The Noldor could do naught but wait upon the whim of the Sindarin King. For surely his sentries were there among the branches. Surely their approach had been noted long ago, as the faintest glimmer of dawn lit the land, surely.

As they watched, a vague shift in the shade commenced, a slow transition from inanimate warding to creeping advance. From the unbroken line of towering trees, a slender, sinuous tendril of darkness snaked out, reaching into the valley's domain as if to snatch up some of the dull illumination from the overcast atmosphere. As one the Elves leaned forward, straining to decipher what manner of spectacle this could be, and then in similar accord all relaxed and resumed the sternly disciplined demeanour of well-trained troops. Under the influence of brighter light and diminishing distance, the bizarre manifestation resolved into a company of warriors, their fine raiment and sturdy chargers indicative of Lothlorien's guards. It did not take long for them to reach the eastern bank of the ford, where they reined in.

Foremost in the column was Haldir and by his side rode Talagan, the only woodland warrior present. He cast his gaze upon the three Elf Lords and when he encountered Elrond's eyes his lips curled in a sneer of disgust. Wordlessly, he leaned aside and spat.

Elrond's face remained placid and gave away nothing but in his heart he was pleased by the soft murmur of displeasure arising among his guards.

"Mae govannen, Haldir o Lorien," Elladan's calm greeting and commanding tone intruded upon the rising agitation and tamped it down.

"Suilad, Elladan," Haldir dipped his head politely and turned to Elrond. "Hîren, I bring the grace of Celeborn the Wise and the indulgence of Thranduil, Greenwood's King. You and your sons are granted leave to enter the lands of the sylvan folk." Now Haldir was great friends with the twin sons of Elrond, but he had seen too much of the strife their father's misdeeds had wrought upon the Wood Elves to refrain from this oblique reprimand. Indeed, he had but to glance upon his brother and law-sister to know the hurts struck too near to his own heart.

Beside him, Talagan chuckled. "Mae pennen (Well said), March-warden. Come across the flood, noble scion of Eärendil, and meet your doom honourably, if it is in you to manage such."

The harsh discord of swords sliding hastily from leather sheathes amid voluble curses was silenced by Elrohir. "Stand down!" he ordered and urged Namië out of formation, splashing into the icy stream and then wheeling to charge straight into the gathered warriors. They were forced to pull back to avoid collision and quickly mastered themselves under his evident disapproval. "Your duty here is discharged; ride on to Lothlorien and await news of our departure."

For a second or two it seemed the soldiers might not heed this directive and a few looked to Elladan; ensuring he was of like mind to his twin. Then the long years of training overbore any personal reluctance the warriors might individually harbour against leaving. Loathe they were to desert Imladris' ruling family, abandoning the House of the Mariner to the care of other guards, yet none could bear to defy their Lords and quickly formed up ranks. With a final salute they faced their steeds to the south and cantered away, spirits as burdened and dreary as the cloud-ridden day.

Now during this disturbance Haldir and the Galadhrim remained outwardly impassive, trusting the twins to manage their countrymen's wrath, yet certainly it was unusual to see Elrond and his sons remain so reserved in the face of such an insult. Not that folk of the Golden Wood expected the noble Lords to challenge Talagan to a duel, for such rash behaviour was beneath them, but neither was Elrond known to withhold a fitting rebuke when it was due. Elladan and Elrohir were equally capable of matching their father's eloquently acerbic tongue and neither one did more than send Thranduil's Sindarin captain their cold hatred through eyes glittering with unvoiced fury. Their stoic silence erased any lingering hopes of Elrond's innocence the Galadhrim had retained.

The toll was paid out and no doubt the shape-shifter was more than ready for the Elves to get on their way, taking their volatile situation under the trees and out of his valley. No sooner had the remaining five riders crossed the stream than Orophin and Dambethnîn joined Haldir, anxious for news. The trio lagged behind, the March-warden's melodious voice too low to carry beyond those intended to hear, and his absence forced Elrohir to pair up with Talagan in order to forestall further abuses to his father. Yet whether it was the younger twin's presence beside him or the lack of his troops to back him, Talagan seemed content to refrain from further comment, his features arranged in the smug contours of a victorious grin. The party progressed with only the sound of the stream and the horses' foot-falls to accompany them.

The river receded under the steady gait of the chargers' loping strides and soon the dark majesty of the forest reared up before them, dominating the field of view and obliterating any thought of a bright horizon ahead. Then Talagan signalled a change in direction and they turned aside from the main road, taking a smaller track leading to the Forest Gate. Not a proper gate of wood and iron, of course, but a portal nonetheless and a more insidious entrance would be difficult to conjure. Here covetous limbs cast a spindly shadow of the shade pervasive under the canopy. This close to the imposing trunks and bolls, the vibrant potency of Tawar's presence seeped from the interior, forbidding intrusion while conversely beckoning, promising to immure for eternity any who disregarded the warning: enter at your peril, but enter; do enter for then you become ours forevermore. Here even the Galadhrim felt a compelling urge to turn and race for home lest their souls become entranced.

Talagan stopped, unaffected by the menacing whispers of the static limbs, and waved for Haldir and his kin to ride up. As they did so, a lone silvan emerged from the ebony void between two towering holly trees and eased her mount into the light. "I have secured a guide for you," Talagan addressed Orophin and Dambethnîn directly and with unexpected compassion. "Thranduil has heard of you from Mithrandir and from your Lord, who bade me relay his leave to refrain from anything beyond your duty to Lord Erestor during your stay."

The grieving lovers needed no further invitation. The overwhelming dread these trees inspired notwithstanding, Erestor was somewhere among them and so they must enter. With quick and silent glances they exchanged good-byes with Haldir and greetings with the Wood Elf and parted from the main entourage. The three horses broke into a gallop and dashed beneath the branches, the sharp report of their hooves instantly muffled by the cloying closeness of the dun coloured air. It was as if the forest had swallowed them.

A moment passed. Haldir sighed and pivoted his charger round so that he faced Elrond, sending the twins a look rife with apology and remorse. "It falls to me to make this statement of the terms under which you may enter. Your arms you must surrender into my hands, assured upon my oath that your safety will be purchased with my own blood if necessary." He lifted his right hand to silence the protest he could see gathering in the brothers' eyes. "Nay, my friends, it must be so." Haldir's customary pitch of aristocratic formality was lacking, replaced by real sorrow to inflict this humiliation upon his Lord's kin, his close companions. It fairly pierced his heart to watch Elladan and Elrohir cast down their eyes in shame as they unbuckled their broadswords and passed them into his keeping.

Elrond, he noted with a flicker of anger, showed only mulish refusal to comply. Haldir was thus forced to repeat the ignominy. "Your sword, sir." He met Elrond's cold glare with blatant disdain, yet the Elf Lord never flinched and actually gave an irreverent sniff as of amused acquiescence while removing his weapon. "Follow closely and remain within the centre of our formation. Be forewarned: the trees are not the only entities creating this mood of high wroth. The silvan people would welcome any excuse to engage in battle the one who has wrought so much damage upon their Tawarwaith. It is my duty to make certain they do not have that opportunity, for both Celeborn and Thranduil wish the full account of these heinous acts to be documented for the histories."

"Tawarwaith?"

The query issued simultaneously from both twins and Talagan laughed at their ignorance. "Aye, that is the title Legolas carries here. He is no longer Thranduil's heir, 'tis true, but he is perhaps something even more commanding. As far as you lot are concerned, consider him at the least level in stature to yourselves."

"I have not considered him lesser in the past, whatever tales emerged concerning him. Indeed, I am gratified to have this proof that he lives," replied Elrohir with quiet dignity. "Neither would I disrespect his status now, though what it means to bear the title you have named remains obscure."

"Worry not; you shall be enlightened soon enough," Talagan grinned around the words. He had been vocal in expressing his displeasure over permitting the Galadhrim to enforce the demands Iarwain's councillors had imposed upon the accused and his sons, but this was turning out quite satisfactory after all. It had obviously cost them much to have the conditions dictated by a dear friend, far more than had he been the one to disarm them. "It is late; we must proceed if we hope to arrive at Ennyn Daer (Great Gates) before Ithil sets tonight." So saying, Talagan turned his mount to the woods, Haldir joining him, and led the escort into the trees.

In twos the riders passed the gate, entering Mirkwood's dusky gloam. At once the impulse to bolt vanished and without that unnerving distraction a different sort of mood altogether came to the fore: the fulsome satisfaction a great predator exudes once its belly is filled. Yet even a dire wolf inspires appreciation, respectful recognition of a magnificent power few creatures possess, and so it was for this forest. Here the strength of Thranduil's magic still preserved a portion of Greenwood's former, terrible splendour.

Elrond was surprised, having explored something of the south and central regions, expecting the whole of the forest would be equally dreary and depressed. These trees were not bound up in the constant struggle against the Shadow he had felt nearer to Dol Guldur and even surrounding the woodsmen's village. Here was as fair a scene as any winter weald could offer and reminded him of Eregion before the wars with Sauron ruined it. The resemblance was enhanced by virtue of the elf path meandering down an avenue defined by endless red-berried evergreens. Eregion, however, had never evoked this response of visceral awe. These hollies were stately, even regal; grand old trees clad in emerald and appointed in garnet, yet they did not welcome. Surely it was mad to be here, to walk willingly into the wolf's lair and ask for clemency.

Nay, I did not come to beg mercy of Thranduil.

Elrond scowled and glanced around at the trees, annoyed and agitated. He was inclined to ascribe his reaction to that generic discomfort experienced by any civilised person upon encountering the wild. Even in Lothlorien, he found it mildly disconcerting to suffer shortened vision, the natural sharpness of elven sight blunted by the feeble light filtering through the net of over-arching branches. The faint illumination here lacked the warmth of the Mellyrn's golden glow. Greenwood's wan and jaundiced air was cold; its touch upon his face and hands too tactile, as if the forest was examining him.

What foolishness! These trees do not discriminate so specifically. Indeed, they seem as provoked by the Galadhrim, forebearing their presence with little more tolerance than a caravan of churlish dwarves would receive.

That was certainly true, yet as the journey carried them ever deeper into the heart of the woods, Elrond's dread only increased. There could be no mistake; the trees were affronted by his intrusion. Like Thranduil, the Lord of Imladris was predisposed to dismiss the sylvans' superstitious sanctification of the woods. Finding a realistic cause for this unpleasant phenomenon was not difficult. What I am experiencing is born of the natural distress the impending confrontation arouses. This is a forest, ancient and majestic but nothing more. Despite these efforts to rationalise the situation, he was unable to shake the sense that he was not so much advancing as the trees were encroaching.

They recognise me.

An oppressive absence of sound enhanced the mood of foreboding and lent the atmosphere a distinct note of accusation and censure. The Lord of Imladris shivered under his cloak, glancing to his left and right where Elladan and Elrohir bore such dark looks that he knew they felt it, too. This was a world secret and secluded, forbidden land not to be trespassed without brevet. Yet though that warrant was granted now, trespass had been done, a grievous invasion of wilful malice and cruel subterfuge upon the very heart and soul of Tawar. Repercussions would resound; restitution long past due would be exacted. Elrond realised how tenuous was the constraint that granted his safe-conduct and wondered from whom the order arose.

Surely not from Thranduil, for the Elven King would hardly care if his antagonist encountered some minor troubles along the way. Celeborn, perhaps, had ascertained this passport, yet Elrond did not believe the Lord of Lothlorien held any sway over these wild and archaic trees. Unbidden, the image of Legolas as he had first beheld him arose in Elrond's mind and his heart surged briefly in the remembered intensity of the feral Elf's eyes. All the longing he had fought to deny boiled up; dared he hope Legolas wished him to come through this intact, dignity and honour unsullied? Would the Tawarwaith grant him reprieve, forgiveness, an opportunity to rejuvenate the ephemeral bond that had germinated between them?
On impulse born of the memory of that initial meeting, he glanced upward, searching the curled and spiny leaves for a familiar figure poised upon the branches. Legolas was not there, nor was any other Wood Elf in evidence, yet Elrond started and let out a surprised "Ah", the sound overloud in the interminable silence. He beheld a sight few besides the woodland folk had ever seen.

Strung amid the twisting limbs were innumerable silken streamers, long ribbons of fabric decorating the canopy, some hanging free in the open spaces while others were irrevocably tangled around the interlocking twigs. Most were faded and ripped, torn and tattered into frail flags by exposure to the changing elements of Arda's seasons through a tally of years untold. A few were still bright and unfrayed, pinned proudly to the wood by arrows fletched in colours to match the cloth. The significance of such adornment was incomprehensible to him, yet before Elrond could inquire his internal speculations were interrupted by Haldir.

"A custom among the silvans, Hîren. Upon leaving their home, warriors place a token of rank and station at the exit, denoted by yon ribbons. When returning, the banner is retrieved. What you see is testimony and monument combined, for all that remain embedded in the trees belong to Elves lost to Mandos or departed on the journey to the Havens, nevermore to dwell under the protection of Greenwood," he explained solemnly and then answered the unspoken question. "I asked Lord Celeborn when we first arrived, for he has been here before and knew of the practice."

"There are too many tokens," murmured Elladan sadly. "What fragment of the woodland folk remains?"

"Quite a substantial fragment, Hîren," admonished Talagan. "The sylvans breed large broods and do so often. Additionally, the race has been greatly improved through the influx of Sindarin bloodlines. You will find the population hearty and thriving despite the losses faced in defence of our home. Those who leave us, well, I admit it rankles, yet it is better that they go. What good do the constant gripers and moaners accomplish through their wailing and tears? None, for only discord and distraction arise from such useless complaint."

"So you still mark the distinction," Elladan reproved, "though you have lived amid these trees for thousands of years and dwelt in but a different forest before then. Are you not a Wood Elf, Talagan?"

"A Wood Elf, perhaps I might be described thus and no fault would I find in the analogue. Sindarin I am by blood and birth and that cannot be changed."

"And what might being Sindarin signify in one's character, beyond an inexcusable arrogance and bull-headed stubbornness?" snorted Elrond in contempt.

"Ravens and crows, my Lord! Your lineage is a mixture of many nations yet have you not called yourself Noldorin? Few would link the quality of humility with those folk."

"So others name me, yet I have not done so myself."

"Deeds are perhaps more voluble than spoken claims, or even silence. You are Gil-galad's sycophant, no more need be said."

"You go too far!" hissed Elrohir, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his absent sword.

"I agree," announced Haldir with his usual imperiously haughty tone. "Silence would be a welcome addition to this conversation."

Everyone seemed ready to adhere to his request and the party progressed with a semblance of peace for a time.

"To whom does Legolas belong?" Elladan unwittingly spoke aloud thoughts he meant only for Elrohir, proof of how severely his heart was being tried.

"To Greenwood."

"To Tawar."

"Legolas is Tawarwaith."

The answers flowed from the deeps of the trees on either side of the track, clear, distinct, and compelling, filled with both pride and something near to adulation.

The escort halted and the horses shifted in place, nervous and unsettled on dancing feet, each one's rider searching the surrounding branches. No motion gave away the origin of the eerily disembodied declarations and no further exposition was offered. Weighty and expectant silence enveloped them and they waited in dread though for what they knew not.

Then commenced a dull creaking of branches, a subtle noise of wood rubbing wood, of stiff, brittle limbs bending under stress. The sound swelled in volume and the dry, moaning wail writhed through the scene as copious limbs swayed in the windless and stagnant air. All around them, the disturbing display was accented by the harsh rasp of the hollies' spiny foliage and a pattering rain of the vibrant red fruit. Just beyond the path's confines, the brash report of a cracking limb was followed by a ponderous thud as it struck the ground.

A high, piercing note of terror and despair burst into this bizarre cacophony as an elven voice rang out. "Tawar mín beria! Tûr an Tawarwaith mín!" (Tawar protect us! Victory for our Tawarwaith!) The cry was duplicated in every direction as though a hundred voices raised the chant, adding their pleading mantra to the grave and fervent gyration of the woods.

"What does it mean?" shrilled one of the Lorien guards.

"Exactly what your senses warn," said Elrond tersely and sent Haldir the wordless demand of a Lord to his liege.

As quickly as it had arisen the unnatural agitation stopped. All the trees were still again, sleeping as they should in winter. The sylvan prayer ceased simultaneously and unbroken silence once more descended over the anxious travellers.

The chargers snorted and twitched their ears, snuffing the air and stamping in the effort to obey their masters and hold fast. Their fear was infectious and the Galadhrim gazed uneasily from the unending emptiness of the crowded forest to their captain, but Haldir was no less unsettled and his frowning features bespoke more than annoyance.

"Aye, something is amiss," Talagan confirmed needlessly. "Let us hasten for the road is long and whatever is transpiring feels urgent. I do not like being apart from my warriors when Greenwood performs this keening ululation of groaning limbs." He did not await a response and his horse needed no further prompting to spring forward. The remaining ranks broke into a brisk canter behind them.

TBC
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Feud

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Nedhan Dor Nîr ar Naeg (Into the Land of Tears and Pain)