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'The Past Unbroken'
Broken? Well, he supposed it was. Pieces lay on his desk: the body,
part of a leg, the head in two bits. He had carried it around on his
travels since - since he had left Nargothrond really, carefully
wrapped in whatever odd bits of cloth he could find. It had been
meant as a gift for their young prince, but long before he and his
companions could reach the coast they had seen the smoke against the
sky, too much to mean anything other than grief. Too late to offer
aid, too few in number in any case against Orcs, wolves, the great
dragon…
He had still taken the horse to Sirion and later to Balar. It had
sat out in the bay with him while the world changed and everyone
huddled for days, weeks, in the small fleet of boats, weeping softly
in fear and loss. He should have given it to the boy, of course, but
it was all he had left of home.
Lindon then, the boy now grown to adult strength, a king to invoke
pride and love - too old for toy horses. So he had kept it, and kept
his memories. And added to them.
His king was gone now, gone in fire-seared courage, but Erestor
still remained. In time Imladris, called Karningul in the common
tongue, became his home. And the horse came with him, knew pride of
place on its little side table. Until today. Two young elves,
rushing in as boys will, filled with news of visiting traders, the
excitement carrying them beyond natural caution.
He had said little to the stammered apologies. They had no idea of
its history, just that he had owned it as long as they had known
him, which was most of their lives. After they left he found he
needed to keep rubbing the back of his hand across his eyes over and
over while he turned the pieces around, trying to decide if they
could be fitted back together again. The wood was so ancient, so
fragile…
The figure taking in the scene from the open doorway remained
unnoticed. He never heard her light footfalls cross the bright,
woven rug and was startled by her presence at his side.
"Thank you for not being angry with my sons, they truly meant no
harm." Celebrķan's voice was soft, the wisdom of her mother in her
eyes as she rested her hand on his shoulder and joined him in
looking down at the wreck. "Give him to me," she said gently. "I
will ask Gurmaeron to look at him, and you will have him back as
new."
"Not as new, lady," Erestor said, trying to explain but unsure of
his words. Much as he liked her, the lady of the valley was someone
in whose company he had spent little time until now.
She shook her head. "No, not as new, I spoke without thinking. I
will see you have him back as he was."
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