[The Fifth]

Kenelm stood silently, as Maladil uttered each and every curse. He was used to such behavior even now, for his father had been quick-tempered and gruff all the time he had known him, but only especially now that Adela perished. When the storm of words soon winded down to spiteful mutterings, Kenelm drew closer.

"Adar ... " he spoke softly, but also urgent in manner and tone. "I have news for which I need to speak to you of." He looked at the floor and the wine-stained spot, afraid that his father would do something to him, although he was already not of the living. He continued. "There is something going on, in the dungeons above us. Living prisioners of Mannish origin. A few are dead, and three remain alive. But ... only two still are free." He clung onto his old harp tightly. "Calimiel had taken one ... she now walks on the ground, breathes, and sees once more ... I do not know who will seize the rest." He stopped, after feeling unusually talkative.

His gaze diverted towards the bunch of lilacs in the vase, memories sifting slowly through his mind. He remembered when he was but a small elfling, and we would walk the gardens with Adela, timidly clinging onto her soft hands. The flowers were rich with colour, and spread out in the sunlight. He remembered that fateful day, when his mother had presented him with a beautiful harp, wrought of mithril, designs of swans gracefully encarved in it. He would play music for her, and the sweet sounds floated about. He remembered being excused early from dinner, walking towards his quarters when it happened.

And so Kenelm looked back towards Maladil, drifting back slightly, waiting for a reaction.