For once, Haleth is mistaken: she is too struck dumb to think on it. She tries, but all her pragmatism abandons her so that she's left with nothing but confusion and a racing heartbeat and ears that burn.
It does not make sense. She cannot make it make sense.
Fortunately Caranthir's outriders arrive the next morning, and the entire camp--Eldar ihuman leaders definitely included-- are too busy to attend to anything else. There are supplies to distribute, plans to make, wagons to load with the wounded, an endless list of tasks. Haleth welcomes it all with relief, shoving other concerns into the back of her mind and handling things with her usual methodical precision.
They all break camp on the second morning. The humans move at a slow, steady pace, sitting in the wagons or walking alongside them. Haleth moves from wagon to wagon, keeping an eye on all, not least her scamp of a nephew.
She stays very busy. This is deliberate as much as necessary.
They stop for the night early, for some of the wounded are not handling the journey as well as hoped. From a distance Haleth watches Linneth and Caranthir tending them, her face blank. The elf lord's long fall of hair glistens in the light of the sunset, the black tinged red.
She turns and walks away, thoughtful.
An hour later finds her kneeling by one of the many campfires, crushing herbs into a stew and stirring it, smelling the results. She looks more relaxed as she performs this task, and a faint hint of a smile plays on her face.
I love this so damn much now.
It does not make sense. She cannot make it make sense.
Fortunately Caranthir's outriders arrive the next morning, and the entire camp--Eldar ihuman leaders definitely included-- are too busy to attend to anything else. There are supplies to distribute, plans to make, wagons to load with the wounded, an endless list of tasks. Haleth welcomes it all with relief, shoving other concerns into the back of her mind and handling things with her usual methodical precision.
They all break camp on the second morning. The humans move at a slow, steady pace, sitting in the wagons or walking alongside them. Haleth moves from wagon to wagon, keeping an eye on all, not least her scamp of a nephew.
She stays very busy. This is deliberate as much as necessary.
They stop for the night early, for some of the wounded are not handling the journey as well as hoped. From a distance Haleth watches Linneth and Caranthir tending them, her face blank. The elf lord's long fall of hair glistens in the light of the sunset, the black tinged red.
She turns and walks away, thoughtful.
An hour later finds her kneeling by one of the many campfires, crushing herbs into a stew and stirring it, smelling the results. She looks more relaxed as she performs this task, and a faint hint of a smile plays on her face.