Chapter Text
“Three hundred lashes.”
Russandol's heart has just missed one beat. He suddenly hears a strange, unnatural sound coming from the side of the forest, and his eyes try to catch something moving across Iant Iaur. No, the bridge is too far away, even the most sharp-sighted bowman would not say anything for sure. This is an attempt to distract from uninvited thoughts.
Why do they flash in his head, as if he, Nelyafinwë, is not their master? Why in a moment of rest, in the midst of a soft mist, in a place where even the restless Youngers feel at ease?
Oh, in the old days Nelyo often spent time among the younger of his kind (perhaps too often, since he, the child of Fëanáro, did not comprehend any art well enough). Once he had a conversation with young Quecillë from Olwë's House, and she told him about the dreams that “calling her back”. Where did they call her, Quecillë did not know, and was afraid to ask Irmo about it.
Maitimo doesn't want to hear anyone call in the warmth of the dunes unless it's the voice of a flesh-and-blood friend. But as soon as he drowns out the alien words in his head with the memory of home they are replaced by something else.
Someone's claws are tearing the chemise on the back. What follows next, of course, can be endured, although no one in the past told Maitimo about the possibility of doing such a thing.
But worst of all is not the pain, not the breath of the enemy's servants, not the abomination of these walls — the face of the one who stands in front of him, casually folding his hands at his chest, is more horrible than everything else. At first indifferent, it changes, the lips part, the eyes darken in such, oh, sophisticated hue.
Nelyo slowly runs his hand along the back — the cloth is intact in several layers. The mist in the valley seems to be getting heavier.